Summer Camp
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Alternate Universe Here. What might things have been like if Trip and Malcolm met -- not on Enterprise -- but at Summer Camp? 'R' for language and graphic violence. COMPLETE
1. At Hell's Gate

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; I am merely re-interpreting them a little.

Author's Note: This is SERIOUSLY Alternate Universe. I am neither American, or British, so if I've gotten a few cultural issues (like what school is like, especially in GB) I am very sorry, let me know and I will do my best to rectify the problem, provided it doesn't prove to be the thread that unravels the entire story. In that case, well it _is_ an alternate universe. My email is on my profile page -- please feel free to contact me directly -- that's what it's there for. I would also like to mention the debt of gratitude I owe to Gordon Korman[1]. _I Want To Go Home_ gave me a serious boost on this thing, gave me the inspiration on how to get these two brats together.

A/N 2: This is what happens when your muse makes like Marty McSorley and hits you upside the head with a piece of hardwood. Oh, and for those of you wondering? There really _is_ a Hell's Gate. It's not that far from Hope.

Chapter 1: At Hell's Gate

# # # #

Trip Tucker slouched down in the shuttle seat, music cranked in his ears, and all his attention apparently focussed on the pad in front of him. So focussed, in fact, that it was clear that he was deliberately trying to ignore the people around him, all of them excited to be heading off to this great opportunity in the British Columbia woods, where they could spend some healthy time outdoors getting to know other kids from around the world. Trip, however, was not, and had no intentions of being a happy camper.

_"I. Don't. Want. To. Go." Summer vacation was not a time for 'educational opportunities' as his parents described it; it was a time for hanging out with friends, going swimming, camping, hiking and just plain goofing around._

_ "That's what this is all about." His mother told him, when he presented that particular argument. "There's some other kids from your school going. And you'll make new friends there, you'll be sad to leave them."_

_ "Yeah the entire freakin' chess club. Bunch of f…"_

_ "Trip."_

_ He gave her an ugly look, but said nothing. Swearing At Mother fell under the category of Crimes Punishable by Long Term Confinement. Which would be preferable to leaving town, but somehow he knew she'd bend the rules this time and send him anyway._

_ "Besides…" He tuned her out at that point, let her prattle on about how very few kids ever got picked for this kind of a chance (well, send one of those other poor slobs then), and how he should really look forward to it (yeah, like dental surgery) and how just a little change in his attitude could really affect his perspective._

_ "You're the one who keeps saying he wants to join Starfleet," His father had less sympathy for Trip's position than his mother. "You're going to have to do a lot of things you don't want to do then. This experience will be good for you, and you can put it on your application."_

_ "I've changed my mind. I'm going to be an indigent artist." He wasn't sure what indigent actually _meant_, but it sounded good._

_ "Fine. Then you can be an indigent artist who went to camp." His mother closed the argument by refusing to argue the point further, something which always infuriated him._

"We're almost there, guys. Everybody ready?" Mr. Calvin, math teacher and faculty supervisor for the Chess club, was almost more excited than his students, leading them in a rousing cheer. Trip added a comment of his own, resulting in a glare from the teacher.

"You might try showing a _little_ enthusiasm, Mr. Tucker. Your teammates here at least seem to understand how lucky they are to have won…"

Teammates. Yeah, right, like he shared _anything_ in common with these geek-freaks. Chess club had been one of his _father's_ ideas, implemented over the howls of protest.

_"You need something to balance out all those athletic pursuits, Trip. You can't just play baseball, and football and ride your skateboard everywhere. You need to develop your mind."_ Like dad could understand what a loser pursuit chess was, he'd been _president_ of his chess club back in high-school. Loser.

In response to his teacher's comment, Trip waved a hand idly, sarcastically in the air. Mr. Calvin sighed, but said nothing, just turned his attention back to the salivating geeks.

_Yippee._ Yes, this was certainly going to be the best summer of Trip Tucker's entire life.

# # # #

"Canada?" Malcolm Reed stared at the permission form his father handed him – neatly signed – a permission form that stated Malcolm Reed, age ten, was allowed to travel abroad without the presence of either of his parents, to a… convention, he supposed, of other, similar aged children from around the planet, taking place in… he looked again, British Columbia.

"That is where this is being held, yes." His father didn't even look up from his desk to answer his son. "Your headmaster informs me that this is an excellent opportunity for you to expand your horizons along with some of your classmates."

_Wonderful_. So other kids from school were going, too. Nobody he'd get along with, he could pretty much guarantee that. A lifetime of being shoved down hallways and pummelled while in bed had left him with the ability to sleep with one eye open, and an innate distrust of anybody he was institutionalized with. At least he'd grown used to the ones he had, knew their quirks, what set them off, and knew all the quiet places to hide from them. There'd be no escaping them on a shuttle to Canada, and once there… well he could hardly expect better treatment, could he? All the others would be in their own little groups, not likely to let in an undersized shy kid whose greatest talent was an ability to disappear. Especially not when his wonderful classmates got talking about him.

Not only that, but it was all apparently _outdoors_. God knew what lay lurking in the Canadian wilderness to set off his allergies… would anyone there know how to deal with that? He didn't bother asking, knew the decision was made and he was now going, despite any concerns he may have. Having supplied the appropriate forms, his father had no more use for him; he'd been dismissed.

North America. He'd heard about Americans, hadn't been too impressed. Brash, self-important, always thinking they knew everything about everything. Canadians were supposedly the politer breed – they hadn't fought a revolution with Britain, had merely bled the mother country dry – but then again, this was the country that invented the bloody spectacle known as ice-hockey. Even football – he supposed if he had to talk to Americans, he'd better learn to call it soccer – wasn't as brutal as that.

_Why me?_ Malcolm sighed, and then left the room to go pack. No sense delaying, it wasn't like he had a say in the matter.

# # # #

_Welcome to Hell's Gate_.

_How appropriate._ Trip read the sign, looked around, then buried himself in his distractions again. From what he gathered, the entire place consisted of rocks, trees and cliffs. Not a beach in sight. Worst of all…

"No girls." Mr. Calvin confirmed to one of the others. "It's an all boys camp, girls get their own camp, their own experiences."

"I thought segregation was forbidden by law." Trip didn't even look up for acknowledgement of his comment.

"This is going to be a long summer for you, Mr. Tucker. Can you even pretend to be having fun?"  
Now Trip did look up, a patently fake wide-eyed expression on his face. "Wow. This is just so exciting, I may just die." He held out his arm and pretended to study his wrist.

Mr. Calvin turned away; it was clear he had finally given up. _Good_. They didn't like each other, no sense pretending that they did. Mr. Calvin only liked the preppy geeky kids who showed all their work in nice neat handwriting, not slobs with barely legible penmanship and a proclivity for taking short-cuts. _At least I get the answers right_. And not out of the back of the book, either, though he'd been accused of it often enough. He probably didn't help the issue with his refusal to do the homework, but what was the point? Either he knew it – wherein it was pointless to do the same thing over and over and _over_ – or he didn't, and staring at a word problem for half-an-hour wasn't going to make him understand it any better.

One bit of information _did_ catch his attention, though. "You guys are going to be split up, now. They want to mix up the cabin assignments, give you all a chance to meet new people. So don't be afraid to just say 'hi', you're going to be as new to them as they are to you."

_Great. Now I can finally lose these morons_. Not that his bunkmates were likely to be any better. Hell, he'd probably get stuck with some kid who still wet the bed and cried for mommy at night. _That does it. I get top bunk_.

# # # #

_Hell's Gate_. Malcolm hoped that it wasn't an omen. So far this trip had been – at the very least – like old-time purgatory. Hell, but with the possibility of early release. Dante would have felt quite at home, here. Could've added another circle on for small boys who had the unfortunate luck to find themselves born into a naval family and possessive of a strong case of aquaphobia. He'd done some reading on these North American 'summer camps' and hoped that they weren't expecting him to swim. Or go out in a boat, for that matter. His father hated that in him, thought that a Reed should have no problems on the water; naval service was bred too deeply to ignore.

"You will be given random lodging assignments. Each of you will be placed in a cabin with boys from other parts of the world, and it is hoped that you will make an effort to get along with them."

"Great." Jonesy, possibly the biggest eleven-year-old Malcolm had ever had the extreme displeasure to run across elbowed his seatmate and partner in harassment in the ribs. "We get to lose poncy-Reed." He put a sad look on his face, leaned over towards Malcolm. "You're going to miss us, aren't you, Reed. All alone with nobody to keep you company. Don't worry; we'll be there. We'll make sure you don't get lonely."

Malcolm's relief at finding he wouldn't have to share any more confined space with Jonesy evaporated. The bigger boy's threat was unmistakable, unless you were an adult and thought that Jonesy was the natural-leader/admirable type.

The other boys all snickered, and Malcolm closed his eyes, wishing he were already there. Then again, his new companions probably weren't going to be any better.

# # # #

They piled off the shuttle and collected their luggage, geek-boys actually checking the tags to see that they didn't have their bags mixed up. Trip didn't need to, he was the only member of the chess club who already _owned_ a big enough bag when the notices came out, and it was the only not-new piece on the shuttle. He doubted anyone would steal it either: he'd simply dumped all his sweaty football gear on the floor and stuffed the clothes his mom had picked out for camp inside. Anyone willing to brave that… well, aside from him that was.

"I thought this country was supposed to be cold." Instead, it was hot, almost as hot as back home, and just about as humid, too. _Water, water everywhere, and still to hot to think_.

"Canada has summers too, you know, Tucker. And we're not that far from the Washington State border. Actually you're standing in the middle of a rainforest."

"Well, why isn't it raining, then?" His question had the desired effect in that it cut off a lecture into the natural beauty of the place. Yeah he could see it was beautiful, and it was seriously natural. Enough said.

"Let's see, here." Mr. Calvin held two envelopes, one full of names and one full of numbers. Trip knew because he'd looked inside of them first chance he'd gotten. They were _supposed_ to be secret, so Trip had made damn sure he had a look at the contents.

"Donovan, you're in Cabin eleven. Rodruigez, you've got six." He droned on, matching names with numbers. "Tucker, you're number three. Are you listening to me, Tucker? What cabin number are you?"

Trip displayed his third finger for the teacher, counting from the thumb.

"You know, Tucker, I've had about enough of you. All I can say is thank God you're someone else's problem now."

"I love you too, teach. Can I go?" Without waiting for an answer, Trip stalked away down the path, heading in what – he assumed – was the direction of the cabins. If it wasn't? Well, what the hell. Maybe he could get good and lost and rot out here. That would make everybody happy, wouldn't it? At least he wouldn't have to put up with slimy Mr. Calvin for two months, the man made his skin crawl. _Piss-brain_. Maybe Mr. Calvin would get lost out here and rot instead. Wouldn't that be a gift?

So. Cabin 3. How appropriate. Proof that God really _did_ have a sense of humour.

# # # #

Malcolm stared around him, taking in the sheer number of kids all standing by their shuttles, collecting their bags and receiving their cabin assignments. One in particular caught his attention: an older dirty-blond kid with a scowl that easily set him apart from everyone else here. A scowl that clearly said: _I don't want to be here_. As Malcolm watched, the boy made a decidedly rude gesture towards the chaperone of his group, then left, despite the fact that he must have been given the same instructions Malcolm had just heard: stay here, at the entrance, until the counsellors came to collect you.

_There goes Trouble_. Malcolm hoped he wouldn't be assigned a cabin with that one… It was obvious the kid had a few problems with basic manners. _Worse even, than Jonesy_. Up until a few minutes ago, Malcolm hadn't thought that was possible. Now…

"Reed, you have Cabin Three. Any questions?"

Of course, he received the last assignment; he always ended up last in everything. He wondered again who he'd be matched up with, tried to figure it out by watching the behaviour of the others. Some of them looked scared, shy, while others milled around boisterously. Almost everybody stayed clumped together with the ones they'd come with.

"Hey, Reed. You going to give us a kiss goodbye?" Jonesy appeared behind him, gave Malcolm a hard shot to the spine. He leaned in close towards Malcolm's cheek, laughing as Malcolm pulled away.

"Cabin Three?"

Saved by the bell, or by the mega-phone in this case. A tall skinny teenager stood over by the gate, motioning people to come forward. Well over 183 cm; he looked like a giant in this crowd.

Malcolm picked up his bag (not before Jonesy spit on it, but what else was new?) and trudged across the pavement. So far, it seemed like a real mix of kids was going to be in with him, six others in total. _Seven?_ Each school had been allowed to choose eight kids; perhaps someone had decided to drop out too late for a replacement to be called.

"Hi." The teenager greeted them as they walked up, lowering his mega-phone to speak to them on a more personal level. "I'm Jonathan Archer, I'm your cabin counsellor for the summer. This is the third summer I've done this, and I guarantee you that every summer, everyone has had a great time. Now I'm going to do a quick roll call, make sure everybody's here. When I call out your name, say 'here' or 'present' or something, so I can connect your name with your face, okay? Arishamu?"

"Here." A short Japanese kid with purple streaked hair.

"Dutertre?"

"Present." Stocky, blond, Dutch.

"Hong?"

"'ere." Chinese-Australian from the looks and sounds of it.

"Kiprusoff?"

"Yes." Another blond, this one Swedish.

"Lemaitre?"

"Oui."

"Reed?"

"Present, sir."

The teenager lowered his pad, and smiled. "You don't have to be that formal here, Reed, can I call you Malcolm? My name's Jonathan, or John, there's definitely no sir about it." His eye caught the insignia on Malcolm's bag. "Think of it as a _vacation_ from the navy."

Malcolm nodded, not sure what to say. _It's how I was brought up_ seemed like such a weak argument, but he couldn't just throw away formality because someone asked him to.

"Sanchez?"

A small dark haired boy nodded, said nothing. Jonathan made a note on his pad then: "Tucker?"

No answer, and the silence seemed to confirm Malcolm's fear. No. Not that, _anything_ but…

"No Tucker? Charles Tucker? I've got here Charles Tucker the Third…" Jonathan's voice trailed off as he realised he wasn't going to get a reply. "Okay, well I'm sure we'll get an answer on the Tucker question soon enough, meantime, let's get you settled."

Malcolm picked up his gear again and followed his counsellor down the path, hoping against hope he was wrong, that Tucker had fallen sick, or something, or had decided not to come…

# # # #

_They really could have done a better job on this place._ Trip stared up at the ceiling; close enough to touch as he lay down on his bunk. Well, if he sat up and really reached for it he could touch it, which qualified as close. Rough-cut square beams slanted down, if you ran a finger along them you'd be sure to get a nasty splinter. Cracks were going to open up in that roof, too, not a good idea if Mr. Calvin was right and this really was a rainforest. As for these walls… Well he hoped the kids around here liked draughts, because there certainly was going to be a lot of them.

The door opened and a tall kid entered, followed by a gaggle of shorter ones, like geese.

_Hey, ma, the kids are home_. He didn't move, did nothing to catch anyone's eye, but someone spotted him anyway. Short, dark haired kid with that pulled in look of the terminally shy. Would probably want to drone on about his coin collection and how much he liked bugs. Worse yet, he'd probably turn out to be a chess freak. Kid had that look: too skinny, too pale. Face was priceless, too, like he'd just gotten a big mouthful of shit and didn't want to say the word.

The tall one walked over, tapped Trip on the shoulder. "You're Tucker, I assume?"

"Wow. My reputation spreads already." Trip drawled. He didn't take his eyes from the ceiling, the place could've been on fire and he wouldn't have moved.

"So, will that be Charles, then? Or Charlie?" Kid consulted a pad, then looked back at Trip.

"Only if you like the taste of blood." He hated Charles, it was so formal, so _teacherish_, and everybody called his _dad_ Charlie.

Kid didn't even blink. "Well, I'm either John or Jonathan, you pick, and you can get around to telling me what you would like to be called in a minute, okay?"

"They teach you cheery in counsellor school?" This game was too easy, just a way of finding where the buttons were. Pushing them later was the fun part.

"As a matter of fact they did, and if you keep this up, you're going to see it. Now everybody's got half an hour, get your stuff put away and we'll meet outside to do the camp tour." He tapped Trip again, dead centre in the chest. "Including you, hotshot. No exceptions this time."

Trip said nothing, did nothing. He didn't plan on joining any stupid tour, especially not with these losers.

"Don't think you can get out of it, hotshot." The counsellor read his mind, even as he walked to the small, separate room at the back of the cabin. Trip had been tempted to claim it, but figured it'd be too grandiose a start. "I _mean_ no exceptions."

_Make me, **hotshot**_. Two could play that game, and there was no way he was losing to some overgrown weed who'd just gotten over his acne. Trip allowed himself an inner smile; at least he'd found himself a semi-decent adversary.

# # # #

_Oh, God_. Malcolm looked up at the figure on the bunk and had to suppress a groan. It _was_ him, and he already had that Jonesy look like he owned the place. First words out of the kid's mouth confirmed Malcolm's darkest fears about him. _American_. If that accent got any more Southern, he'd be speaking Spanish. Not just American, but what did they call themselves? Rebels? This Tucker certainly lived up to that description, mouthing off to Jonathan like it was something he did every day. Jonathan certainly took it well enough, better than Malcolm's father ever would have. Malcolm couldn't even imagine himself talking to his father like that; he'd never get past the first word. Jonathan gave them half an hour, and the other kids were all fighting over bunks now, keeping away from Trouble. Which meant that, as usual, Malcolm got the short, dirty end.

Sighing, he set his stuff down at the foot of the bunk. _Of course I couldn't get the top one_. He wasn't going to ask for it either, had a fairly good idea what the answer was going to be.

"So what are we supposed to call you?" He asked it softly, hopefully too softly for Tucker to hear.

Tucker shot him a look. "I really don't care. Personally, I wouldn't care if you didn't call me at _all_. It ain't my idea to be here."

_Isn't_. _Isn't my idea_. What kind of English skills did they teach in America anyway? "Well, I didn't precisely have a say in the matter, either." Why did he care about someone who clearly didn't want people to care about _him_?

He ducked under the bed and began stowing his belongings in the space not already occupied by a large, battered and rather smelly bag. The words weren't much above a whisper -- it was a miracle he heard them, almost wasn't sure that he had – words tinged with a deep, almost familiar sadness.

"Trip. My name's Trip."

* * *

[1] _Despite_ the fact that his first novel was a grade 7 English project. I am _so_ jealous.


	2. Breaking In

**Disclaimer: These are not my characters.**

**A/N: Yes, this is not as funny as the last chapter, but I never said this was a comedy, either. Thanks for the reviews, they are hugely appreciated. I feel so loved.**

****

**Chapter 2: Breaking In**

Trip. Each school had included a list of nicknames that the students preferred, and Tucker's was right there on that list. _But I'm not calling him _anything_ until he meets me halfway._ Until then, well…

"Hotshot." Jonathan smiled, thinking of the look on the kid's face. Oh, it hadn't been there long, maybe only a millisecond, but there had definitely been a quick moment of shock. Maybe he wasn't used to being challenged back, found it difficult to be on the receiving end of his own game. Hotshot was smart, Jonathan gave him that. Oh, his reported grades fell all over the map… but given the comments, Jonathan assumed that some of that had to be good old teacher prejudice. _I bet you're a riot to have all year round_.

Yet… something nagged at Jonathan, wouldn't let him believe that this was all there was. Twelve-year-old boys didn't act like that without a reason, especially not twelve-year-old boys as well adjusted as Tucker ought to be. Football, baseball _and_ swim teams along with that chess club. He _should_ have been out there making friends with everybody, instead he spent his time mouthing off, like he was getting in a pre-emptive strike.

"What's the matter, kid? Afraid someone's going to like you?" Tucker's hostility _was_ real, no way he could pull it off as all act. The trick was finding out what caused it and defusing that landmine. Which – given the kid's obvious resentment of authority – wasn't going to be an easy task.

And then there was Malcolm Reed. Hadn't said a word since that 'present, sir.' had simply followed him mutely as though disobedience were anathema to his entire character. Hadn't reacted well to Tucker, either. Jonathan had seen the look when Malcolm caught sight of the hotshot in the top bunk – right next to the door, have to think about that -- as though his darkest fear had just materialised in the form of a grubby, dark-blond, foul mouthed (oh yes, Jonathan was willing to bet Tucker used more than a few words that deserved a bar of soap) kid who didn't like to play by the rules. Then again, given the initial impression he'd gotten of Malcolm, it probably had. _Oh, yeah, those two are going to get along like a house on fire_. Probably see more than a few explosions and sparks.

As for the others: it was the standard mix you got every year. Most of the differences would come down to culture rather than some deep emotional difference. These two, however… how much money was he willing to place on the probability that when he stepped out to collect them that Malcolm's bed would be neat enough to bounce that coin off of, and Tucker still wouldn't have moved from his? That when Jonathan told them to assemble for the tour, Malcolm would be the first one out on to the porch – not through eagerness, but simply because he was expected to be there – and that he'd have to haul the hotshot outside, physically?

_Bet you didn't check that the forms give me permission to do that_. Jonathan decided that he had a new mission during this camp, probably the toughest he'd given himself yet. Get that hotshot to crack a genuine smile.

# # # #

Jonathan stepped back into the main cabin and clapped his hands. "Okay, guys. Tour time."

The other kids dropped what they were doing or finished it up quick, heading for the door. Kid on his lower bunk was there first, waiting patiently for his next set of instructions. _Well isn't that a surprise_. Kid moved like he expected the world to stop if he didn't snap to. _Not._

Well, let those eager beavers get out there to 'tour' their fenced in bit of Canadian Wilderness, he was going to stay right here, thank you. Nothing short of an act of God _and I'm from Florida buddy, even those don't get me to move_ was going to budge him from this bunk.

"You, too, hotshot. Let's go." Jonathan clapped again; what, did he assume that Trip just hadn't been paying attention? Maybe it was something else they taught in counsellor school. "Move."

_Nope_. Nobody could beat Trip at the Zero-Yards Not Moving competition, not when he didn't want to do something. If Mr. Cheerful wanted to waste his time, well that wasn't Trip's problem.

Another couple of seconds passed, then the last of the kids was out the door, closing it behind him. Just Trip and Jonathan left.

"Last chance, kid."

Good. Finally the lightning rod was catching on. Quick, too. It usually took his parents longer than this.

A large pair of hands reached out, grabbed Trip's arm and started pulling. Instantly he stiffened, which only made the job easier.

"I don't think you understood me when I said 'no exceptions', hotshot. _Everybody _goes on this tour, and that includes you, even if I have to drag your miserable ass the entire way."

_You can't _do_ this._ Trip wanted to scream, but didn't, knowing that it would mean giving in. _This is assault, you can't _do _it._ His parents didn't even pull shit like this, hadn't since he was four years old. His feet dropped to the floor, and only Jonathan's grip and Trip's own natural athleticism let him keep his balance.

"And just for the record, I can do it, your parents gave me that permission." Damned shithead was psychic, no other explanation for it. Strong, too. Trip didn't even try to pull away, only babies did that. If dork-weenie wanted to work for it…

"You know, you're really going to make an impression on those others out there. Probably the first time they've ever seen a forced march."

Trip didn't say anything, just let his features solidify further.

"Okay. Your choice, hotshot." At that, Jonathan headed for the door, not loosening his grip in the slightest. Those long legs meant that Trip had to stumble to keep up, especially since his knees –like the rest of him -- weren't going to bend. Oh well, this wasn't going to last long.

# # # #

Malcolm's eyes widened as the door opened and Jonathan stepped out with Trip in tow. He hadn't expected that, had expected a longer wait while the two argued, then Jonathan to emerge alone and tell them that they were going to leave Trip behind for now to think. Trip's face looked like he wanted to kill people, starting with the guy attached to his arm.

_That's like something my father would do_. Or rather have someone do for him, right before the offender was cashiered for disobedience. But Jonathan looked perfectly calm, as though dragging kids behind him was an everyday occurrence. He didn't look like he held any malice towards Trip at all; indeed it seemed as though his new appendage was merely incidental to everything going on.

"Okay, guys, pay attention. We're going to do a basic tour of the camp so you get an idea where everything is. You may have noticed that the cabins are a little short on facilities, believe me, that's part of the tour. Now I'm sure you all want to get this over with before dinner -- I know I do -- so let's get going. Stay together, and if you have any questions, just ask." Jonathan started walking backwards down the path, the fact that he still had hold of Trip's arm meant the smaller boy had to go with him.

He heard a couple of the others muttering amongst themselves, saw them stifle a couple of giggles. _Why? It's not funny_. He'd have hated Jonathan in that moment, but for the expression on Trip's face. A mutinous look, if Malcolm had ever seen one. _Watch your back, captain_. He had a feeling that Trip had every intention of making their counsellor's life a living hell from this moment on. No, this was no innocent victim, this was a war, and Malcolm wasn't sure which side to cheer for. Or for that matter, which side was going to win.

The tour took a while, with Jonathan pointing out the important buildings, like the bathrooms and showers – "Sorry, guys, but there's not a lot of privacy at camp" – the Mess hall, the Arts Cabin, and – to Malcolm's dread – the boathouse and the small lake.

"Water's awfully cold, but on a day like today that can be fun." Malcolm was ready now to believe that Jonathan _had_ taken cheeriness lessons somewhere along the line. "Absolutely _no_ swimming or going in the boats if there isn't a lifeguard on duty. Now, all of us counsellors are all certified lifeguards, but if one of us isn't actually there, and on duty, do _not_ go in the water. If you're unsure, _ask_. It's for your own safety guys, cold freshwater probably isn't what a lot of you are used to, and believe me, it can make all the difference."

_Don't worry about that_. Cold water was the _worst_, the shock made it so you couldn't breathe, then you just sank. Even the _thought_ of drowning made his heart race, his breathing quicken.

They passed a few groups, on tours of their own. Many of the other campers snickered or stared at the Cabin 3 spectacle as well. Then…

"Hey, Reedy." Jonesy, passing in his own group, leaning in for a leer. "Having fun, yet?"

Malcolm stepped back involuntarily. He hadn't wanted to show fear in front of his cabin-mates, but instinct ran too deeply. He _was_ afraid, especially out here, alone and unprotected.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trip paying close attention to Jonesy, memorizing the entire exchange. _Oh, wonderful_. The rebel kid didn't need lessons, and certainly didn't need it pointed out that Malcolm was a complete and utter coward. Jonathan's attention, too, focussed in on Jonesy. _No, sir, please don't do anything, you'll only make it worse._ He had to learn to defend himself; the problem was finding someone to teach him. _You'd think being in a military family, it would be easier_. If only his family knew he was there more than once in a millennium. And at school… Well, Jonesy was too popular with the physical education teachers. Trying to convince them that he was a bully…

"Come on, Jones. Let's go." Thankfully, Jonesy's own counsellor called him back, removing the need for Jonathan to get involved. Still, they were supposed to be here for two months, which gave lots of time for Jonesy to finally kill him.

# # # #

_Not good news_. Jonathan stared after the departing Jones, glad that Kendricks took care of the problem, but frustrated there was a problem to begin with. _There's always one_. Explained a lot about Malcolm though, as to why the kid always seemed to try to blend into the background.

An intake of breath drew his attention, and he realised he'd tightened his grip on Tucker's arm, probably too painfully. Loosening his grip – but not letting go -- he saw the smaller boy's attention focussed on Jones, wondered why. _ I hope that's not what you want to be like_. Probably not, Jones was more the type to bully the weaker but obey the stronger. Tucker seemed to have no problem taking on bigger people.

"Are you okay, hotshot?" The look he received in return could've melted steel. Okay, note that one. Do not ask if the hotshot is okay, it implies weakness. On whose part, Jonathan wasn't sure, but either way it probably wasn't a good thing.

He made another mental note to talk to Malcolm later about it. Any bullying needed to stop _now_, before it got any worse. What _wouldn't_ be good would be to hassle him now, in front of the others. Bad enough he was doing it with Tucker, but Tucker seemed to have the ability to defend himself.

He finished the rest of the tour up quickly, too distracted now to give them the regular spiel. Bad enough to have one case of trouble in the cabin, but two?

_Be fair. It doesn't look like Malcolm goes out looking for it_. Ah, that was the difference, wasn't it?

Depositing them back in the cabin, he kept walking down to Six for a word with Kendricks. Get him to put a bug in that Jones kid's ear about the fighting rules around here. Tucker stayed standing right at the point where Jonathan let him go, not moving a muscle. Kid could outstubborn a mule. He didn't delude himself on his chances against the younger one in a straight battle of wills; Jonathan knew he'd have to think fast to stay a step ahead.

Sure enough, when he returned from his conversation ("Yeah, John, already had that word in fact."), Tucker still stood there, doing his own version of human statue.

"Might be more comfortable if you sat down, hotshot." He avoided the glare by not looking at it as he walked past. A couple of the others snickered, he silenced them with a look of his own. "Dinner's in half an hour, you might want to go get washed up." He opened his door, listening to the sound of kids getting their stuff together and leaving the cabin. "Dinner's not mandatory, hotshot. You don't want to go, you don't have to."

He could almost hear the thoughts run through the kid's head. I won't then. And you can't make me. He sighed, and collected a few of his own things. This was going to be a long summer.

# # # #

_Cat food would probably taste better, anyway_. Trip waited until they left, then climbed back up to his bunk. Damn that guy anyway, who did he think he was? "Dinner is not mandatory," Trip mocked, "I can drag you all over Hell's half acre, break your arm in two for some information you can do without, but sustenance is not important." Like he cared anyway. The look on people's faces when Jonathan yanked him around like that… easy to make people believe that Jonny-boy was the villain there.

ABUSE AT CAMP. Wouldn't that make a great headline. He could even show them the bruises on his arm. _See how they beat me, I just barely got out of there, it was a nightmare._ He smiled to himself, tried to imagine that sanctimonious hypocrite (like 'indigent' he wasn't positive on sanctimonious, but was pretty sure it worked) facing an investigative panel and trying to explain himself.

_Bite me, jerkoff_. Hypocrite _did_ work, look at the way he treated Trip then went running off to help that Malcolm kid. Like what Jonathan did wasn't the exact same thing. Though – Trip had to admit – Malcolm definitely had a few things to worry about. Not that it was surprising: Jones was the type to look for someone to pick on, and Malcolm might as well paint the word BAIT on his forehead in bright orange letters.

Voices at the door interrupted his musings; quickly he resumed his stiff posture and locked unblinking eyes on the ceiling.

"Reedy's here. We find out what bunk…"

_And I drop you piss-brains on your skulls for wrecking my nap_. Overwhelming odds didn't frighten Trip in the least; it was the easy things he hated.

The boys opened the door and stepped in, clearly expecting everyone to be milling around that barn they called a mess hall. And with that many kids, who'd miss a couple who probably said they were going to the bathroom?

Stupid morons didn't look up, instead they kept their eyes on the floor, looking for a particular bag. Slowly, Trip shifted position and waited.

"There." They spotted the bag, still didn't see him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

They came closer; he waited. As soon as they were close enough…

He lashed out with his foot and caught the Jones kid right in the centre of the forehead. His other foot struck downwards onto the bastard's nose. It wasn't a direct hit, but it was enough. "Get the fuck out of here, you bastards."

They seemed more surprised than anything. They'd been expecting an empty cabin, not a pissed off occupant.

"Get him." Jones responded quickly, ordering his lieutenants into the fray.

"Fuck you, dickhead." Trip crawled up into the rafters, moving away from the bunk. They scrambled up to follow him, while Jones waited on the floor. "What's the matter, too afraid of me to do it yourself?" Yeah, that was it, shithead couldn't do it. Too scared of a real opponent.

"Jonesy. They're out. Let's get out of here." So they'd at least had the brains to post a look-out. Not that it took much -- any decent heist movie told you to do that.

One of the others was close enough to make a grab for Trip, who dodged out of the way. The other kid overbalanced and fell, wound up hanging by his fingers.

"I said _out_, shitface. You deaf _and_ stupid?" Trip lay back and braced himself on his hands then brought the heel of his sneaker down hard on the kid's knuckles. The kid screamed and let go, but not quite fast enough. His hands dragged across the wood with enough force to embed several slivers deep into the skin. He hit the floor hard, pausing a moment before rolling to his feet and bolting.

"I'll get you for this, you little fuck." Jonesy pointed a warning finger at Trip then ran out himself.

"Any time, limpdick." Trip shouted after him, unable to resist the last word. He _couldn't_ leave it to Jonesy, how could you count it as a win if the other guy didn't know that he'd lost?

He barely had time to get back into bed before his bunkmates showed, fortunately the fight hadn't wrecked anything. '_Cause, what the hell. I'd get blamed for that, too._

Jonathan brought up the rear, as usual. "Okay, guys, you've got a couple of free hours, then it's lights out. Morning comes early around here, and you're going to want to be ready for it."

_I don't think so_. Usually Trip was the first one awake in the house, _especially_ during the summer. He could go _days_ without sleep, most of the time, anyway. He _certainly_ had no plans for sleep tonight, he had too many other things to accomplish.

# # # #

_Something happened here_. It wasn't just the open door that put Malcolm on alert, though that had certainly triggered the alarms. He'd been edgy every since that encounter with Jonsey, and half expected to find his bunk demolished when he stepped inside.

Instead, the only thing out of place was Trip, who tried to look nonchalant up there on his bunk, but Malcolm could see that he was breathing more heavily than normal, and that he seemed to be shaking ever-so-slightly, the typical symptoms of an adrenaline let down.

That someone had broken in seemed obvious, and Malcolm had a pretty good idea who, so what had happened after that? Had Jonesy seen Trip and decided to go for an attack of opportunity? It seemed unlikely: Jonesy didn't like taking on those who could fight back, and Trip didn't strike him as the type to simply knuckle under. _This is going to get bad_.

"That was such a good dinner, they gave us second helpings of everything." No they hadn't, but Dutertre seemed to be trying to make a point. He'd waited until Jonathan told them about lights out and left, so no one but the group was left to hear. "Too bad you couldn't make it, hotshot."

_And now it begins_. No matter where, there would always be a Jonesy. The other kids were picking up on Jonathan's form of address -- they thought it was funny.

Trip, said nothing, merely gave Dutretre the same gesture he'd given his chaperone.

"What's the matter, don't you eat? Maybe he only eats baby food."

Trip repeated the gesture, added a throat slashing motion. An obvious message, even for Malcolm to read. _Fuck off and die._

"Hey guys." Jonathan came back into the room in time to catch Trip's sign language, nothing else. "Let's not have any of that, okay? We're here to try to get along."

Dutretre nodded agreeingly; Trip just seemed to ignore the counsellor.

Jonathan looked at them both for a long moment then went back into his room.

_Why don't you say something?_ He knew why: because it never worked, and because Trip would probably be mad at him if he did. He wasn't sure why he cared so much about the other boy's feelings, except that he was pretty sure now that the anger was a cover for something else. _Fear_. Malcolm knew all about fear, he had names for several different varieties. It was _what_ Trip could be afraid of that puzzled him. From what he'd overheard from a couple of the students who'd come in with Trip, the Southerner was into every pursuit imaginable, did things Malcolm couldn't even _dream_ of. _He_ couldn't even make himself get into a boat, while Trip had only his age to prevent him from being certified to do solo SCUBA dives. Quarterback (whatever that was) slash Captain of his school's (North American) football team, star pitcher for the town's Little League baseball team.

It seemed like they had been describing another person, not the mass of cold rage that lay a couple of feet above him. He'd only been sure because they'd mentioned Trip by name, and added a few details that _did_ fit. Swearing, for instance, and always in trouble. Yet… Malcolm remembered how sad Trip had sounded earlier, when he'd given his name. An odd name, for an odd kid, that's how it was. He wished he had the guts to ask where it came from, but knew he'd never pull it off. He had enough trouble with Jonesy trying to pound his head in, without Trip trying to take it off.

# # # #

_Finally_. Lights Out _never_ meant the same thing as gone to sleep; Trip knew from amassed experience on numerous sports trips that people always stayed awake after the official curfew, too keyed up to nod off. These jerks seemed to take _forever_ though. Only now did he feel confident that the breathing and snores were even enough to signal that the last of them had dropped off. Moving silently, he slipped out of his bunk and down to the floor. Carefully he listened to be sure Malcolm hadn't woken up, then crawled underneath the smaller kid's bunk and sought out his own bag. Experienced fingers sought the small pouch that had been added to the bottom of the bag– _I bet you didn't know I could use a sewing machine, hey Mom _– and teased out the slender bundle from inside. There was a reason he did all his own packing; certain things you didn't need parents to find.

He slipped across the floor, carefully opened the door. _At least they maintain the hinges on this thing_. No creaks announced his departure, no one yelled to say he was leaving. _Stage one: success_.

He took a deep breath, the cool night air helped him focus. Now… mess hall was thattaway, and the main hall was over _there_. He stood for a moment, making a final decision and headed off to the main hall. More than likely they stored it in there, just so the kids and the kitchen staff were less likely to confuse counsellor goodies with their own. He'd have to see what they had, and adjust from there, but the power of a good strategy lay in its adaptability.

Nothing in the shadows made him jump or start: sure there might be unfamiliar wildlife around here, but it couldn't be worse than sharks or crocodiles, and he doubted any of the dangerous types would be able to make their way into a camp full of vulnerable boys. Though the staff seemed pretty serious about it: Jonathan had given them plenty of warnings against leaving garbage lying around – especially food garbage – and shown them how the kitchen scraps went directly into tightly sealed containers that were picked up and shipped out every day for recycling.

_"If you see a bear, or even a deer or a beaver for that matter, don't go near it. They're dangerous animals and quicker than you think. They don't know that you're not going to hurt them: they're either scared, or think you're out to take away their food, so they do sometimes attack."_ Well, maybe some of the baby kids needed to be told stuff like that but…

_Try getting between a dolphin and its next meal and see what happens to you, buddy_. Trip already knew that just because an animal _looked_ cute didn't mean that it was. In addition to the aforementioned crocodiles, the Everglades was _full_ of deadly creatures that not only saw humans as a threat, but occasionally as a snack. Stories in the news all the time about some stupid tourist who lost his hand to a "harmless" looking turtle, or didn't look where they were stepping and got treated to a near death experience by a more than cooperative cottonmouth. _Never stopped me, though_. It was the stupid people who got hurt, the stupid and the scared who ended up startling the wildlife and causing the problem themselves. Act like you belong there, respect the rules of territory (it's theirs, never forget it), and you were fine.

Breaking into the main hall proved easy enough, these guys certainly weren't big on security. Several rooms lay off the main one, he quickly eliminated the ones marked _Office_, or with someone's name. The right door proved easy enough to identify as well, either someone very clever or very juvenile had put their own sign up on it, the icon recognisable no matter what your native language: Ladies' Washroom. Cute.

…………………………………..

He headed back down the path, pleased with the way things had unfolded so far. He'd found lots to work with in the counsellors' secret stash – how much of it was Jonathan's he wondered, and decided that probably, not much – enough to expand upon his original plans. Halfway back to the cabins he stopped, catching sight of a figure moving towards him.

_You've got to be kidding me_. That Malcolm kid; if anyone was going to tattle on him, Malcolm would be the one. _Oh well, might as well make it worthwhile_. He slipped his index finger under the tab on the can he held, pulling up to break the seal. Yes, the best plans were adaptable, a good thing when you had to include other people in them.

# # # #

_You'd think I'd be able to do this by now_. Shouldn't dormitory living inure you to the presence of others and let you sleep? Yet every time Malcolm found himself in a new setting, rest would not come no matter how hard he tried. Instead he lay perfectly still, listening to his companions gently snoring and shifting in their bunks. He didn't move when Trip climbed down from his, began rummaging in his luggage.

_Probably has to go to the toilet._ After all, he doubted Trip had left the cabin all day, except for the tour. It would be more surprising if the kid _didn't_ go out, even if he had missed supper.

Except he didn't come back. It shouldn't take more than five, ten minutes to go to the bathroom, and it was well over half an hour. Something must have happened.

_Should I tell Jonathan?_ If Trip was in trouble, surely the counsellor was the best equipped to handle it. Yet, telling seemed so much like tattling. If it _was_ nothing, Trip would have even more reason to hate him.

He slipped out of his own bed, found his shoes and snuck outside. The slight breeze slipped right through his pyjamas, chilling him a little. At least Trip had been fully dressed; he hadn't bothered to change from the clothes he'd shown up in.

He doubted now that the older boy had gone to the toilet; Trip was more the type to be up to mischief in the middle of the night than anything else. So… he headed up the path towards the main hall and activities buildings.

Halfway there he spotted his quarry, wandering casually back towards the cabins like he'd just been out for a midnight stroll. Something dangled loosely in Trip's left hand; it was a beverage can, Malcolm realised, and Trip raised it in a salute when he spotted Malcolm.

"Hey." Trip didn't seem the slightest bit concerned that he'd been caught after Lights Out; it was just another rule that didn't apply to him.

"Hello."

"Whatcha doing out? Aren't you supposed to be in bed, with all the other good kiddies?" Trip smirked, there was no other word for it.

"Actually, I was looking for you." He didn't say he had been concerned, Trip seemed to take concern as an insult.

Trip nodded, coolly. "And now you've found me. Figured out what to do next?"

Actually, he hadn't. He was running blind here, in unfamiliar territory. Conversations themselves were novel for him; conversations with someone who just might be mentally unstable were even more alien. "I thought I'd see what you were doing and judge from there."

Apparently it was the right response. Trip looked him up and down, then grunted. "Adaptable. You're smarter than you look, then."

He supposed he should take it as a compliment, it was the closest he'd ever heard the other boy come to giving one. He'd never been called adaptable before, either; he tended to stick to well established strategies.

There was a pause, and Trip held up the can, this time Malcolm noticed the small, square box Trip held on top of it. "Beer?"

Malcolm shook his head, some territory was best left untouched. "No thank you."

Trip responded by throwing the can at a nearby trash receptacle, scoring a direct hit. The lid of the container sensed the weight and opened briefly, before resealing itself. "Good. Because it tastes like shit anyway."

Again there was the sense of a test taken and passed. Quick on its heels came the next one, as Trip opened the box and pulled out a small paper cylinder and stuck it in his mouth. A lighter flared quickly then the only evidence of flame came from the red glow at the end of the cigarette.

"Those will kill you." It sounded stupid, everything you weren't supposed to say in this kind of a situation, but he couldn't help it. That's how he always got in trouble, said the worst things at the worst times.

"I'll try not to breathe on you then." Trip didn't seem all that concerned about the prospect of death, a lifetime down the road. He did however, angle himself away from Malcolm so the smoke drifted elsewhere.

"How did you get chosen to come here, anyway?" The question came out all wrong, came out as an insult rather than a curiosity, but Malcolm pressed with it anyway. "I was under the impression that this was for elite students and that you aren't precisely…"

"The academic type? Depends who you ask. If it's Mr. Calvin and the geek squad, no." Trip's eyes narrowed. "Who have you been asking, anyway?"

"Nobody. But you're the talk of the camp. _Everybody_ saw you being dragged on the tour, so your classmates are the ones – naturally – who are being asked about you. I just listened."

Trip nodded. "Not enough people do that. Okay, so you've heard about me. Why'n the hell would you come out here to look for me?"

Malcolm shrugged. "I thought you might be in trouble, that's all." He winced; he'd been trying to avoid saying that.

"I'm always in trouble. I was born in trouble. No need to worry about me." It came out with too much nonchalance, too much bravado.

"I bet you're not." Newfound courage grew in Malcolm; he'd never called a bluff before. "I bet you didn't even drink any of that beer."

"Well I'm not diving into that trash can to prove it to ya." Trip looked up suddenly, startled. "Oh shit." He dropped the cigarette to the path, and ground it fiercely into the dirt. We're busted." He gestured with his head, back toward the cabin.

_'Busted' indeed_. Jonathan strode towards them, and he did not look happy.

"What are you two doing out here? It's way past Lights Out, you're supposed to be in bed."

Malcolm scrambled to think of something, anything to say. He wasn't a habitual rule-breaker; he had no experience at lying.

"I'm out here because I don't give a crap. _He's_ out here because he thought I got lost going to the can." Trip didn't even bother to lie; Malcolm was impressed. This kid really _wasn't_ afraid of anything. Maybe he'd been wrong about the anger, maybe Trip _was_ just naturally an angry person.

Jonathan sniffed, then his nose wrinkled. "Which one of you has the smokes?" He looked straight at Trip as if to say _Like I have to even ask_. He held out his hand, and Trip smacked the box down into it.

"Okay. Now here's how it's going to go. This is your first offence, Malcolm, and I'm going to buy the hotshot's story here. Next time, though, let _me_ know if you think someone is missing. You…" He pointed at Trip, though there could be no mistake "…hotshot, just wrangled yourself two days work detail. Now get back to the cabin."

"Sir." Malcolm didn't move from his spot; he wasn't sure who was more shocked, Jonathan or himself. "Tr… he didn't force me to come out here sir." He wasn't going to give up Trip's name if Trip wouldn't, "If he gets work detail, I think I should too, sir."

Trip's look said it all. _Are you crazy_? Maybe he was, but he'd also just ended the longest civil conversation of his life. He wasn't going to let Trip get in trouble on his own.

Jonathan did a double take. "You _want_ work detail?"

"If he gets it, yes. It's only fair."

"Fair is a sunny day, kid. Don't kid yourself." This from Trip, muttered bitterly.

Jonathan shrugged, as though it were nothing. "Fine. You've got work detail then. Starts after breakfast tomorrow, you two can clean the place up. And yes, hotshot, you will be going to breakfast." He herded them back to the cabin, and watched to make sure they both went back to bed before returning to his own.

_What have I done?_ When his father found out he broke the rules, he'd be in even more trouble, he'd be lucky if he'd be allowed to stay. An hour ago he'd have taken any excuse to go home, but now… Maybe this summer was going to be different after all.

.


	3. Playing Games

Disclaimer:  I do not own these characters.  This is an alternate-universe story, and written for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note:  Thank you for the reviews, they are greatly appreciated. Keep it up, please, and pass the word if you like it.

Chapter 3  Playing Games

            Jonathan lay on his bunk, turning the cigarette package over and over in his hands.  He had a pretty good idea who they belonged to, the question was… How did the hotshot get a hold of them?  None of the alternatives he could come up with spoke well of the kid's respect for rules, or laws for that matter.

            _At the same time_…  At the same time, these shouldn't have been here for Tucker to find in the first place, _nor_ should have the beer.  Not that either of those facts excused a break and enter but…

            _You're not as bad as you want to appear, kid._  Like Malcolm, he doubted that Tucker had drunk any of the beer, and the trick with the cigarette had been cute too.  Half a second after it was lit, he'd taken it out of his mouth, never to return it.  _Didn't inhale once, did you?_  So it had all been an act, a means to an end.  But what end?

            And then there was Malcolm.  He _did_ buy Tucker's story, at least as far as Malcolm's original motives, but that still hadn't explained the younger boy's eagerness for punishment detail.  Did he feel some sort of hero worship towards Tucker?  Did Tucker represent some exotic ideal that Malcolm aspired to imitate?  It wouldn't be the first time a good kid wanted to be like a bad one.

            There were other problems too.  He sensed a power war brewing in the cabin, with Dutretre and the others on one side, and Tucker (and possibly now Malcolm?) on the other.

            _At least the face the hotshot keeps secret is the nice one_.  He hadn't been fooled by the Dutch boy's sweetness and light act.  _What?  You guys think these walls are soundproof?_  He knew that Dutretre had tried to bait Tucker and hadn't really succeeded.  _Guys like him don't take losing well._  Unlike Tucker who seemed to take it as just part of the game.  He remembered the way hotshot had handed over the cigarette pack: Jonathan didn't even have to push.  Other kids would've denied it, or tried to talk their way out of it, but not Tucker. 

            _It _is_ a game to you, isn't it, kid? You win, or you lose and get on with the next play._  Not your standard twelve-year-old style of thinking.  The kid thought like a colleague of his dad's:  wisdom (or was that cynicism?) beyond his years; a pint sized PhD. 

            _What am I going to do with you?_  He knew what he _should_ do: report the whole damn incident to the camp director -- up to and including the suspected break in.  But that would get Dino in trouble too, and he was basically a good guy and a friend of Jonathan's.  Besides, he didn't _want_ to rat out the kid -- didn't want to lose him this early.

            "Oh, well.  You're already on work detail.  We'll have to take it from there."  He had a sneaking hunch that Tucker wasn't going to hassle him on that.  Hell, the kid would probably _enjoy_ doing work detail, just because it was supposed to be a punishment.  Perverse little bastard.

            _Wait until the meeting tomorrow night_.  Then Jonathan would find out how far the monster had gone. And whether or not it was far enough to get Jonathan fired.

# # # #

            "Morning.  Rise and shine, everyone."

            Malcolm groaned and opened his eyes, remembering what had happened the night before.  It seemed like such a bad dream, but a look at his feet and the dirt on them confirmed otherwise.  Then he remembered the other stupid thing.  "Sir?  When does…"  He climbed out of his bed and began finding his clothes for the day.

            "After breakfast Malcolm.  During free time."  Jonathan walked over and prodded at the upper bunk, which prodded back.  "Hey.  Up.  Breakfast."

            "I don't do breakfast."  A tousled head protruded briefly from the sleeping bag then disappeared again.

            "You also didn't do dinner last night, and we don't allow hunger strikes here.  Now, up and at 'em.  Let's go.  We've got five minutes to get to the showers."  Jonathan shook the bag this time.  Hard.

            "Do that.  Have a nice time.  Don't slip on the soap."  The bag wriggled closer to the wall, and Malcolm couldn't help feeling a little awed at Trip's stubbornness.  Didn't Trip realise that they'd been let off easy last night; didn't he realise that Jonathan was being nice?

            _Or maybe that's the problem._  Malcolm knew what it felt like not to be taken seriously.  Maybe all Trip wanted was for someone to stop treating him like a kid.  It would help if he stopped acting like one, of course, but Malcolm wasn't sure that logic was Trip Tucker's strong suit.

            Reaching over, Jonathan picked up the entire sleeping bag, one end in each fist.  He lowered it closer to the floor and released the top end.

            Trip slid out of the bag and landed on the floor with a thump.  He remained where he fell, until Jonathan picked him up.

            "I'd kind of hoped we wouldn't have to do things this way again, hotshot.  Unfortunately your cabinmates do have to live with you, so showering is compulsory."

            Trip was already dressed – he still hadn't changed -- so it was just a matter of waiting for the others to gather their things and go.

            At the showers, Trip refused to go in.  Malcolm stood aside nervously as Jonathan marched Trip up to the edge of the showers then met resistance as Trip's feet firmly planted themselves against the ledge.  "Shower, hotshot."  The others gathered around; all of them eager for the free entertainment.

            Suddenly Malcolm found himself reminded of a movie he'd seen recently.  _The Dirty Dozen_.  So which one was Trip?  Surely not Franko, all bluff and bluster and a coward inside.  That part seemed more suited for Dutretre, or maybe his growing best friend, Hong.  No, Trip was from another movie entirely.  One completely his own.

            Finally Jonathan picked Trip straight up and plunked him – fully dressed – down into the shower stall and turned on the water.  Trip's face never changed expression.  It was almost as if he had expected this to happen.  Maybe he had.

            After a couple of minutes, Jonathan reached in and turned the water off, then lifted the now dripping boy out again.  "Now do you want to get changed, or do you want to spend the day in wet clothes?"

            No answer from Trip.

            "Okay.  Wet it is.  Hurry up, guys.  Shower and get dressed, and then breakfast."  Jonathan leaned in and said something quietly to Trip whose face just got stonier.

            Cabin 3 garnered a lot of stares at breakfast and most of them were directed at Trip.  There were plenty of still wet heads in the camp, but no one else had a pool collecting under their feet.  And despite his lack of dinner, the blond boy merely toyed with his breakfast, pushing his cereal around in his bowl with the tip of his spoon.  He held a fork in his other hand but did nothing with it as his eggs and sausage congealed.

            _How long _can_ a person go without food?_  Malcolm watched, fascinated.  He'd never seen anyone work at being miserable before.  It seemed to take a lot of concentration.

            "Hey, kid."  One large hand smacked Trip's shoulder, another hit the table in front of him.  "I don't think I caught your name.  What did it sound like?  Dickhead?"

            _Oh no_.  While he supposed he should be thankful that Jonesy had someone else to pick on, why did it have to be Trip?  This could not be good.

            The fork stabbed down into the table scant millimetres away from Jonsey's hand.  Reflexively, Jonesy pulled his hand away; Trip still hadn't taken his eyes off his cereal.

            "Boys."  Jonesy's counsellor came up behind Jonesy and herded him onward.  "Let's not have any of that."  The look the counsellor shot Jonathan clearly said more:  _And you think _my_ kid is dangerous?_

            _Well, he is_.  Malcolm guessed that that made twice Trip had beaten Jonesy, or at the very least hadn't lost.

            "Hotshot.  Eat your breakfast."  Jonathan spoke up, apparently in an effort to distract everyone's attention from the fork still vibrating in the table.

            Trip said nothing, did nothing.

            "Come on.  You're going to need your strength.  Eat up."  Jonathan reached across the table with one long arm and prodded Trip's plate.

            Something flickered in Trip's eyes for less than a second.  Malcolm tensed, waiting for a dish to go flying, or Trip to launch himself across the table at Jonathan, but nothing happened.  He'd seen it though, a flash – not just of anger – but of temper.  Rage.

            "Maybe he can't eat it." Malcolm offered.  "Maybe he's allergic."

            Jonathan raised a disbelieving eyebrow.  "Is that it, hotshot?  Are you allergic to breakfast?"

            Trip said nothing, did nothing.

            "Humans can only go about three weeks without food, you know.  This camp lasts for two months.  We don't want to send your parents a bunch of bones back."

            "Hah."  Dutretre nudged Hong.  "His parents probably don't want him back at all."

            Again that flash and nothing more.

            "Boys.  Be nice."  Jonathan spread his hands out on the table.  "I can't force you.  But we don't eat again until lunch and that's not very heavy.  And you _have_ got work detail today, along with everything else.   And you _will_ be taking part in everything else."

            Malcolm watched as Jonathan sighed and gave up, walking away from the entire table.  He saw the counsellor's hand clench into a fist, and knew that Trip had won.  He wondered if the older boy took any satisfaction in the victory at all.  And just what it was he thought he was winning.

**# # # #**

            _One more, kid, and you'll be eating your own teeth_.  Dutretre thought he was so hot with his smartassed comments and it took every ounce of Trip's will _not_ to break, _not_ to spoil the main contest.  The only thing that kept him from doing it was – strangely – Malcolm sitting across the way and watching him.  There was something odd about that kid, like he had no personality of his own whatsoever, and he just borrowed what he needed from other people.  That outburst last night was more his normal style than the British kid's -- he was sure of that.

            _Why should I care_?  Because he liked puzzles, that's why.  And Malcolm was as big a puzzle as Trip was likely to find in this stupid place.

            Jonathan got up and stormed away.  _Found another one of the buttons.  Good._  The truth was, he wasn't all that hungry.  The food he'd scored last night would tide him over until he could scavenge the next meal… wasn't that supposed to be how you survived out in the woods?  Admittedly the people who said that didn't mean pre-packaged snacks out of refrigerators, but to each his own, right?  He couldn't say anything though.  That would spoil the rest of the surprise.

            _Anticipation.  Anticipa-ation.  It's making me crazy…_He wished he could be there when they found out, but only an idiot returned to the scene for something like that.  _That's how they catch arsonists_.  Arsonists loved to watch; he'd learned that while looking for some information on fire in relation to fluid dynamics.

            _You'd make a good arsonist, Malcolm_.  Kid was always watching.  Watching and thinking, though too much of that could kill ya too.  _Gotta learn to act, kid.  Quick shots, make 'em regret it._

            _Luke.  Come join me on the Dark Side_.  He could tell the kid was waffling, feeling sorry for Jonathan.  _Get a grip.  He's big, he can take it_.  What business did Jonathan have being a camp counsellor if he didn't know how to deal with kids?  Hell, he'd once sat in front of breakfast all _day_ without eating.  Admittedly that had resulted in Go To Your Room and Don't Come Out Until You Can Be Civil, but Mom hadn't given up the way Jonathan just did.  Nowadays they just took his plate away and fed it to the dog.

            _Or in this case, Dutretre._  Kid looked like a dog too -- one of those big square ones with the pushed in face and stupid expression.

            Finally feeding time ended, leaving only Trip, Malcolm and Jonathan.

            "Okay, guys."  Jonathan stayed by the door, away from Trip.  "Clear up the tables, then start washing them down.  Brooms, mops and buckets are in the storage closet over there.  Same with the cloths.  This place has got to be spotless, and you've got one hour.

            "I thought…"  Malcolm's voice trailed off miserably.

            _You thought he meant clean up the cabin, didn't you?  Welcome to Reality, kid._  Trip stood up wordlessly and gathered together the dishes from Cabin 3's table, scraping the leftovers onto one plate and stacking them neatly with the cutlery on top.  When he'd finished on each of the tables, he headed for the kitchen.

            "Hey."  He heard Malcolm calling after him and ignored it.  _I knew they'd have one_.  He also ignored the startled comments of the kitchen staff when he grabbed the large dish cart and wheeled it out to the floor.  _What?  Other morons bring them in one load at a time?_  Why was it people always thought he was stupid?

            He whistled, loading up the cart and ferrying the dishes back to the ginormous dishwasher the camp used.  He scraped everything clean into the garbage disposal and loaded the dishes, only to return to the mess hall to find Malcolm trying to decide between brooms.

            "Hey."  Trip spoke softly, not wanting Jonathan to hear him sounding nice.  "Wait'll we've wiped the tables first, then sweep.  Saves doing it twice."  He picked up one of the bottles in the closet and read the label.  "Sanitizing Cleanser.  Hm.  Level 0 health risk, should be okay."  He grabbed a set of testing strips from the next shelf and mixed a solution.  He split it into two buckets and handed Malcolm one.

            "Here.  I'll take the far side, you take the near side, and we'll meet in the middle.  Don't spend too much time on any one spot:  if you can't pry it up with your fingers, don't bother.  After that's done we'll do the floor.  Sweep with that…"  He pointed to the wide dry-mop, "…just straight runs up and down the floor, then get rid of the piles with a brush and dustpan."  His eyes lit on something in the corner.  "I'll take care of the rest."  Now _this_ was fun.

# # # #

_Perverse little bastard_.  Jonathan listened for a moment to the soft gentle snores and breathing of his charges.  Even the hotshot was asleep, or at least doing a good imitation.  Thick sandy eyelashes rested against sun-reddened cheeks, giving him the appearance of complete and utter innocence.  _You're going to be fighting the girls off soon enough kid._  He looked so harmless like this; appearance so deceiving.

            The kid shifted and sighed, and Jonathan decided it was safe, or at least as safe as it was going to get.  "Night, kids."  He stepped out the door and closed it softly behind him.

            He didn't hurry his way up to the main hall.  He had an idea what was waiting for him: the others would already be talking about him and his luck in drawing the 'problem case of the year'.  Hell, with Tucker, they'd probably have to expand that to decade, _especially_ when they got the details.

            Sure enough, the discussion was in full swing.  "Hey, John. We just finished voting you winner of this year's lottery.  Congratulations."  Kendricks slapped him on the shoulder as he walked in.   "Looks like the past two years of grace have caught up with you."

            "Lucky three." Jonathan agreed.  "Where's Dino?"

            "Had to make an emergency run."  A deep voice boomed behind Jonathan's shoulder.  "You wouldn't believe what happened." Dino waved a paper bag as he pushed his way past, heading towards the coffee table in the middle of the room.

            _Try me._  He was willing to believe anything at this point.

            "Some asshole broke into the fridge, and poured out all the beer.  _Then_ he stacked the empties back inside.  All neatly lined up, like they'd never been touched.  Stole my smokes, too."

            It was all Jonathan could do not to burst out laughing.  _God, kid, you _do_ have a sense of humour_.  Wordlessly he handed the cigarette pack over to Dino who looked at him in disgust.

            "You?"

            Jonathan shook his head.  Realisation dawned for the others.

            "Shit."  Dino glanced towards the padlock fitted refrigerator and back at Jonathan.  "Perverse little bastard, isn't he?"

            "Now, you guys don't know it was him."  He did start laughing now.  This wasn't quite what he'd been expecting.  With the hotshot it could've been anything.

            "We heard he's already on work detail." Niemanen, in charge of Cabin 22, piped up from the back of the room.  "It's what?  Day two?"

            "Yeah, and you had him cleaning the mess hall?  Isn't it usually the cabin on the first offence?"

            Jonathan perched on the windowsill, one of the few places left.  "I figured he could use the challenge.  Besides, he had help."  He told them about Malcolm's begging to be assigned alongside Tucker.  The other counsellors shook their heads, disbelieving.

            "What's worse, is he seemed to enjoy it.  Only problem came when I had to physically stop him from using the power floor cleaner.  If looks could kill…"  Hotshot had actually sworn at him.  It was the most words he'd heard from the kid yet.

            "Perverse little bastard," Dino repeated.  He grinned.  He'd had the trouble kid last year, though nothing like Tucker.

            "Yeah, but in an hour, John?"

            "He did it."  Jonathan still had no idea how.  The regular cleaning crew took longer than an hour to clean the place up.  Yet, according to his watch, it had taken less than forty-five minutes for the kid to go from immobile to Jonathan's prying him off the heavy equipment.  He hadn't just moved, he'd been damn efficient.  And _whistled_.  He'd actually been _enjoying_ himself.

# # # #

            _I oughta get an Oscar_.  Trip shifted and sighed, just like he was asleep.  Sure enough, Jonathan bought the act and left the cabin, trying not to wake him.  He waited, counting off another twenty minutes before getting up.  He stepped lightly down to the floor and gave Malcolm a light shake.

            "Go time.  Let's roll."  He grabbed both of their bags, waited for Malcolm to take his.

            "Are you sure this is going to work?"  Malcolm's whisper was soft, but Trip could still hear the worry in it.  "They lock the gates at night, you know."

            "Some locks." Trip scoffed, "I can be through them like nothing.  Now let's go before one of these jokers decides he needs to go pee."

            Malcolm followed him out, taking care to close the door as softly as Jonathan had.  "Are you sure nobody's going to be out…"

            Trip rolled his eyes.  "Please.  They're all tucked away in their secret hideaway talking about what a bad boy I am.  Probably trying to decide whether or not to send me home or call in the shrinks.  Trust me, no one is going to catch us."

            "Oh."  Malcolm still didn't sound sure, but he didn't push the matter, either.  Truth was, Trip wasn't so certain himself.  He had a feeling this Jonathan guy could be pretty tricky, if it ever actually occurred to him.

            "So what did Jonathan say to you this morning, in the showers?"

            Trip snickered.  "That the others wouldn't pick on me so much if I loosened up a little.  Like, no _shit_ Sherlock.  Truth is, I don't care _what_ they think.  They're all morons anyway."

            A flicker of worry crossed Malcolm's face, visible in the moonlight.

            "Not you.  You've got guts, kid.  You gotta learn to use 'em a little better, but you've got potential."  Poor kid was scared of his own shadow.  No wonder that Jones kid had picked Malcolm out as his toy.

            They slipped into the woods, staying off the main paths at Malcolm's suggestion.  Sure it was longer, but it was also a good idea.  Trip told him so.

            "Thank you."  Malcolm seemed shocked to be receiving a compliment. 

_            Probably doesn't get many_.  Poor kid.  No wonder he was so messed up.

            Trip glanced over as they passed the main hall and caught sight of a figure silhouetted in the window.  Long and lean, and nicely out of the way.  _Bye-bye, smart guy._  Poor bastard hadn't stood a chance.

# # # #

            Jonathan leaned his head against the cool glass, and let its soothe him.  He was close enough and blocking enough of the light to be able to see through the window, rather than deal with the mirror effect.  Two figures picked their way through the woods, heading towards the main gate.  One bigger, with a smaller one following right in his footsteps.  Both of them carried bags -- the taller one had his slung easily over his shoulder while the shorter struggled with his.  _Oh, shit_.

            He jumped to his feet, attracting more than a few startled stares from his fellow counsellors.  "I gotta go guys.  I'll be right back."  He grabbed a flashlight on his way out, even though the moon was full enough to get away without it.  He ran down the path, wanting to catch them before they actually reached the gate.

            "Freeze, hotshot."  The two figures in front of him stopped and turned around to be identified by flashlight.  Just like he'd thought.

            "Let me guess.  You're going on an unscheduled hiking trip to oh… say… _Florida_ and he came out to make sure you weren't eaten by a bear."

            "Actually," Tucker dropped his bag at his feet, "he volunteered, this time."

            "Oh, but I think I can guess whose idea it was, hotshot."  Jonathan stepped closer.  He could see Malcolm shaking his head, but to what he had no idea.

            Tucker shrugged.  "First two don't count.  Cabin?"

            "Now."

            "Work detail?"

            "Double."

            "Him too?"

            "Him too."

            Tucker picked up his bag with the air of someone who'd just struck the better deal.  He headed off to the cabin, in no great hurry, but in no apparent worry, either.

            "You might want to find someone else to hang out with, Malcolm."  Jonathan watched the smaller boy haul his own bag up off the ground and head after the rebel.

            Malcolm stopped, and turned around, looking Jonathan straight in the face.  "Yes, sir.  But then who's going to be friends with him?"  He started out again, this time not looking back.

            Jonathan stared after.  Speechless.


	4. The Rules of War

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I am just borrowing them for a while.

Author's note: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the reviews, guys. Thank you to my beta readers: silvershadowfire and gaianarchy. Please keep up with the reviews, and if you like, please pass the word on.

**Chapter 4: The Rules of War**

"Laundry day, guys. Get your stuff together – I hope you have your names on everything – and hand it over. I'll take it down for you." Jonathan held out a large laundry bag with a 3 stencilled on the side. Obediently the campers began throwing their stuff into it.

"You too, hotshot."

Trip shot him a look. _You've got to be kidding._

"Laundry, hotshot. I don't care if you've only worn one set of clothes so far, they need cleaning and getting them wet in the shower doesn't count. Same with your sleeping bag."

Trip didn't budge – he just stood there with his arms folded and watched the others. Jonathan stepped over and reached onto Trip's bunk…

No sleeping bag. No pillow. Just an empty mattress. He looked underneath the beds. Trip's bag had vanished.

"Okay, hotshot. Where is it?" Trip could see Jonathan's patience beginning to fray.

Trip didn't move. _How stupid do you think I am?_

Jonathan sighed. "You think you would figure it out by now." He stepped over to Trip and knelt at the boy's feet and began unlacing Trip's shoes. When he finished, he lifted Trip up out of his shoes and set him on the floor again. Lifting each foot in turn, he pulled off the socks. Then he took hold of the cuffs of Trip's knee length shorts and tugged.

Fortunately the underwear stayed where it was. Done with the shorts, Jonathan stood up and grasped the tail of Trip's shirt. Since Trip didn't uncross his arms, the shirt pulled up and over his head, and stopped.

"Come on, hotshot. Give up the shirt."

Trip just stayed standing until Jonathan worked the fabric out from under his arms.

"You know, you look pretty silly standing there like that."

Trip said nothing, but darkened his glare.

"Okay then. The rest of you guys are going to breakfast, I don't think we'll make the hotshot show up like that. If you feel like joining us, I suggest you find something to wear."

Trip flicked a gaze around the cabin at everybody else's bags.

"Not any of their stuff, either, hotshot."

_Okay_. A better idea was forming anyway.

"Maybe he didn't hide them." Malcolm suggested it so quietly, that Jonathan almost missed it. _Almost_.

"I'd believe that, Malcolm, except for the remarkable coincidence that this is laundry day." Jonathan raised an eyebrow at Trip who met his stare head on in challenge. "Either way, I think hotshot here will figure out something. It just better be in time for work detail. 'Cause you're still doing that, and I don't think he'll make you suffer alone."

_I _could_ surprise you and go out like this_. That would almost be worth it, except for his tendency to sunburn. _But I like my idea better_. It fed into his longer term plan, _and_ had the added bonus of further driving this geek up the wall.

Jonathan herded six snickering and one worried looking boy out the door. He paused and turned back. "Don't think you're going to win this one, hotshot."

Trip watched him close the door behind him, heard the locks click. _Wanna bet?_

# # # #

_That wasn't very nice_. After all, someone else could have stolen Trip's things. Just because it was laundry day didn't mean they didn't. What better timing could they have? It wasn't fair of Jonathan to simply assume that it had been Trip; Malcolm couldn't think of a single reason for his new friend to hide his own things. Sure – his sleeping bag maybe – but his clean clothes? Since Trip had only worn one set of clothing in the entire week they'd been here (prompting more than one bout of taunting from the others), surely Trip would have no need to do anything else. Unless he thought that with nothing to change into, Jonathan wouldn't make him change. Now _that_ fit with the way Trip Tucker seemed to think. _But it still wasn't very nice_.

He hoped Trip would find something and make it on time, but it seemed unlikely. After all, Jonathan _had_ stipulated that Trip couldn't borrow from his cabinmates, and – even though Malcolm wouldn't say anything – there was no way he could fit into anything of Malcolm's.

Yet… breakfast had only ended by five minutes when Trip strolled through the doors. Malcolm felt his jaw fall slack, not just due to the fact that Trip was there, but also the matter of the other boy's appearance.

He wore a pair of grey shorts that reached his ankles. The shirt he had on could've doubled as a dress were it not re-hemmed with what looked like electrical tape, and he had a belt double wrapped around his waist to hold everything on. All of it – including Trip himself – bore various stains and spots, including what looked like – to Malcolm at least – lubricating grease.

"Oh my God." Jonathan stared at Trip like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He probably _couldn't_ decide which: while Trip looked ridiculous, it was also fairly obvious whose clothing he had decided to borrow. And destroy.

Jonathan took a deep breath and then cocked his head at Trip. "Okay, hotshot. Because of that, you don't clean the mess hall today." Malcolm could've sworn he saw just a flash of disappointment in Trip's eyes. "You clean the showers and the toilets."

Jonathan turned to Malcolm. "You see what kind of trouble he gets you into?"

"Yes, sir. But it doesn't matter, sir." He was sure that Jonathan was trying to guilt Trip into saying sorry, and Malcolm knew that Trip would never do it. Sure, the older boy might _feel_ guilty, but he would never show it. At least not here.

"Okay. I hope you guys have fun, then. Let's go, hotshot. I doubt you can get those any dirtier."

Again there was a flash in Trip's eyes – delight at a new challenge.

_Oh, dear._ Malcolm prayed that, this time, Trip hadn't gone in too far over his head.

# # # #

_Remind me never to say anything as stupid as that again._ Jonathan herded his bickering charges towards the mess hall, noting how nobody wanted to get too close to Tucker. How the kid had gotten any dirtier, Jonathan couldn't figure out. _I suppose I should bust him for theft and vandalism_. Except Jonathan knew he'd set himself up -- in a way – by insisting that Tucker give up his last remaining set of clothes and then reminding him of his beloved work detail.

_I still don't get that_. Malcolm had hung back at first – a natural reaction given the state of any toilet and bathing facilities shared by a large number of males – but Tucker had dived into the job: scrubbing and disinfecting every conceivable surface, not deterred in the least by the smell or the thought of what may have caused it.

Yet something else emerged about the kid today, something Jonathan hadn't noted before. Anyone else and Jonathan would've had to stand over their shoulder just to make sure they didn't accidentally mix the wrong chemicals and kill themselves. Tucker – on the other hand – had read every single label, _and_ cross-referenced it in the Material Data Safety Sheets before proceeding. He even tested his solution mixes every time he put together a new bucket. _Methodical. I don't know many _pro's_ who are that careful_. He'd worn all the requisite safety gear – even though it meant practically disappearing under goggles, gloves, and mask. He'd made Malcolm wear the gear too, though – perhaps significantly – stopped short of insisting their supervisor observe safety regulations. It had taken them well past the time Jonathan had allotted, but he arranged for one of the other counsellors to take over the rest of the kids for activities. He'd been too fascinated by the drama playing out in front of him to do anything else. _Especially_ when Tucker started a repair job on a loose fixture only for Jonathan to stop him – and receive another cursing out in the process.

_Well, I'm sorry kid, but I couldn't have you wrecking the entire plumbing system._

A crash distracted him, and he turned to see Malcolm picking himself up off the floor. Jones was nowhere nearby, but another one of the students who'd come in with Malcolm _was_ conveniently sitting where he could have easily tripped the boy.

Jonathan shot a glare at the kid, who looked back innocently, thus he failed to see the hand make a quick pass over his dinner. Instead, he dug in and ate without thinking; without really tasting it at all.

………………. …………………

_Oh, God_. Something in dinner didn't agree with him and was doing so vehemently. _I can't: Tucker'll take off as soon as I'm out the door._ On the other hand, if he stayed here, it would only get more embarrassing. _Damnit_.

He rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the connecting door. He opened it cautiously and looked around the cabin. Everybody _seemed_ to be asleep, including Tucker, who lay stretched out on the floor – deemed (by himself) too dirty to climb into his stripped bunk. _I'll only be a minute or two_.

# # # #

"Hey, Malcolm. Let's go." Obediently, Malcolm sat up and climbed out of his sleeping bag. He started to pack it up, only to have Trip put a grimy hand on his arm. "Don't worry, you won't need that."

"Huh?" He'd actually fallen asleep, even though Trip had insisted that Jonathan _would_ be going out tonight. _How did he know?_

"Come on." Trip motioned him out the door, closing it softly behind them. "I thought he was never going to go."

Malcolm looked at him – puzzled, especially when Trip handed him the clean outfit Jonathan had left on Trip's bed – then started down the stairs and up the main path.

"Hang on." Malcolm stopped and watched as Trip wriggled into a small hollow space beneath the cabin. A couple of seconds later he emerged, pulling with him his duffle and sleeping bags.

"You mean you _did_ hide them?" Malcolm couldn't cover his shock. "Why?"

Trip smiled but didn't answer. "Come on."

Malcolm did as he was told. _What is he doing?_ A lot of what Trip said and did made no sense. He wouldn't take part in activities but treated work detail as a reward rather than a punishment. He _should_ have been the most popular kid in the camp but spent much of his time making other people hate him. "Where did you get the name 'Trip', anyway?"

Trip groaned. "I'm Charles Tucker the Third, right?"

"Okay."

"Third. Three. Triple. Do I have to spell it out?"

"Oh." Must be an American thing. He looked around nervously before chasing after Trip who'd now gone on ahead of him.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Still, he couldn't quit looking over his shoulder.

"Relax." Trip flashed a sudden smile. "He's not going to come back any time soon."

"How do you know that?" Malcolm looked around again, unable to share his friend's confidence.

"Because I added a little 'special seasoning' to his dinner." Trip's smile turned into a giggle. "He's going to stay right where he is for the next while."

Malcolm stared at Trip, open-mouthed. "You…you're joking, right?"

"Hey." Trip turned defensive. "I needed to buy us some time. Guy's been watching me like a hawk. If I hadnt've got him out of there, hed've stopped us before we got three steps out the door. Now relax. It was a small dose. He's gonna be just fine." He giggled again. "He needed to loosen up anyway."

Malcolm groaned and Trip laughed even harder.

"We're going to be on work detail forever."

"Hey. He can't prove it was us. All he's got is 'prior bad acts' which is inadmissible. We're fine."

"That's what you said last time," Malcolm reminded him.

"Yeah, but this time we're not gonna get caught. This is totally different."

"So what _are_ we doing?" If it was another escape attempt then why had Trip told Malcolm to leave his stuff behind? Surely the older boy didn't plan on abandoning him, did he?

"Stuff." Trip smiled mysteriously. "It's just going to take us some time. And I'd rather not deal with any interference."

_Oh no_. If Trip wouldn't say – how bad was it? _We're not going to go on work detail; we're going to go to _jail.

Where they headed right now – he discovered – was the showers. _Don't tell me…_ But sure enough, once they were inside Trip pulled a towel, some soap and shampoo out of his bag and stripped down.

"I thought you didn't take showers."

"Excuse me," Trip stuck a foamy head around the side of the stall, "This hair doesn't take care of itself."

"But…"

"I don't take mandated showers. And at least – now – I know I'm not going to come out dirtier than when I went in."

_He really is crazy_. At the same time, Malcolm couldn't help but admire it. He'd always followed the rules, to the letter. Trip – on the other hand – seemed to have no such compulsion. Indeed, he saw the rules as a challenge – almost as something to be avoided at all costs. And Malcolm couldn't say he was any happier than Trip… in fact he was willing to bet the opposite. Trip seemed to have found a way to have fun with his life even if it wasn't what everyone else perceived as fun.

Shower finished, Trip claimed his clean laundry from Malcolm and re-dressed. He then picked up his bag and Jonathan's dirty things and headed back out, this time – Malcolm realised – for one of the 'off limits' industrial buildings: the laundry.

_Definitely crazy_. Hadn't today's adventure _started_ because Trip wasn't doing laundry?

"You know we're not…"

"You can wait outside if you want." Trip's tone indicated that it didn't matter if he did or didn't.

"I didn't say that." No way Malcolm wanted Trip to see him afraid. Not now. "I just wanted to make sure…" His voice trailed off and he took a lookout's position as Trip bent over the lock. A few seconds later the older boy sighed and the door swung open.

"Easy as fallin' in the water." Trip didn't turn on any lights, just pulled a small flashlight out of his bag and shone the blue beam around the room. "This shouldn't take too long… the machines they've got in here look pretty top-notch."

Malcolm closed the door behind them then watched as Trip loaded up one of the washing machines -- not only with clothes but with the bag itself (emptied of several mysterious looking non-clothing items). Then, as the first load began, Trip scouted the shelves until he found something he wanted.

"This ought to work nicely. It's supposed to get out near anything… though the adhesive might be a bit of a problem."

"I'm sorry…"

"The adhesive. From the tape?" Trip gave Malcolm a look that indicated he thought the younger boy was being a little slow. "You don't expect me to return these clothes in this condition, do you?"

_Well yes, I had._ He realised now that that would be too simple for Trip Tucker. He was starting to get a handle on the other boy's rules – and there were rules. For example, he never did any _real_ damage. And what damage he did do, he fixed. Even if – Malcolm reasoned – the sole purpose of fixing the damage was to drive his opponent crazier. _Poor Jonathan._ Watching Trip scrub stain remover into the spots, Malcolm chose his side.

# # # #

_This is just not my year_. Somehow, every year somebody got sick from dinner. For it to be him on _top_ of having to deal with Tucker…

The door opened, letting in a cool breeze. The snap of a match and the scent of burning tobacco told him instantly who it was.

"Hey, Dino."

"Hey. Looks like you really bagged the lottery this year."

"Tell me about it." If he didn't know better, he'd swear somebody was out to get him.

"You don't suppose it was on purpose do you?" Dino's voice held a note of malicious glee. "I wouldn't put anything past…"

"Shit!" Jonathan grabbed for the toilet paper as realisation struck.

"Yes, that does seem to be the problem."

"No. If it is him… to any other kid this would _be_ the joke, but with Tucker it's a means to an end. He'd never go for something this simple." Jonathan emerged from the stall, buttoning his shorts as he walked.

"Hey. Come on. How bad…"

Jonathan headed out the door, and began speedwalking towards the cabin. "Very bad. This is _Tucker_ we're talking about. He's probably gone already."

He didn't even bother to be quiet as he cleared the stairs in a single step and opened the door of the cabin. Sure enough bunks one and two were empty. _Shit_.

"Jon?" Dino trotted up behind him, still not quite concerned.

"He's gone. _Both_ of them are gone. I can't get a single night's sleep around here. You check the south side… I'll take the north. Hopefully they're not too far." They split up, looking for movement in the darkness.

An hour later, Jonathan gave up. He'd sent Dino to bed after his futile sweep, then double checked everything. The kids had vanished.

_I'm going to be fired. I'm going to be _arrested_._ He trudged up to the cabin, already feeling the itch from the bed of stinging nettles he'd stumbled into. _I gotta call the director… damnit, kid…_

Pushing the door open, he stopped dead. The smell of hot fabric softener wafted towards him and…

Both bunks were now blissfully occupied, with a strangely clean Tucker snuggled away in a nice warm freshly laundered sleeping bag. A small, peaceful, smile graced the kid's lips.

Anger at the stunt found itself balanced by relief that the two of them were safe. A few seconds later relief won out._ Doesn't count. You're unconscious_. He flicked the bottom of the bag with his finger and headed off to his own room.

His clothes lay neatly folded on the centre of his bed; they too were still warm from the dryer. The belt had been coiled on top and every single stain was gone. Unable to help it, Jonathan sat down beside them and silently laughed._ You perverse little bastard_.


	5. Tears and Fears

> DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters, I am merely borrowing them, age regressing them and dropping them into a new setting. Other than that… actually, I think I'm just channelling the story.
> 
> Author's Note: Thanks (as always) to my wonderful beta readers, gaianarchy and silvershadowfire: you guys found the holes I missed. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thanks to all of you who have reviewed so far…I'm glad everybody's enjoying this as much as I am. There's lots more to come… so please keep reading, and pass the word if you really like it. As I've said before: my email is on my contact page if you have any questions or suggestions to forward along. I can also contact you by email (myself) to let you know when each new chapter goes up. Like I said… Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy the story!
> 
> **Chapter 5: Tears and Fears**
> 
> _Dear Mom and Dad_, Trip bent over his letter home, pursing his lips as he considered every word. _I think you should be informed precisely what conditions I have been subjected to. Since this camp has started I have been insulted, physically abused, used as slave labour and deprived of food. My cabin supervisor whose name is Jonathan Archer_ – he underlined the name several times and bolded it – _is the one responsible for these maltreatments. He has harassed me constantly – including the use of derogatory language _(he'd had to look up derogatory)_ and assault. He even went so far as to leave me without clothing._
> 
> _ The only saving grace is my new friend Malcolm -- though I fear he is not entirely stable._ Malcolm had fallen off a log during a wander in the woods. _However, I suppose I must be grateful to have someone to talk to – when you consider the times I have spent in solitary confinement in the cabin._
> 
> _ I miss you all, please give my love to Elizabeth and James and tell them I truly hope to see them again soon._
> 
> _ Your loving son,_
> 
> _ Charles._
> 
> Jonathan picked up the letter and stared at it for a moment before turning his gaze to Trip. "You don't really intend to send this, do you?"
> 
> Trip gave him a look. _Of course I do, asshole_.
> 
> "But it's all lies." Jonathan dropped the letter back down in front of Trip, amazement written all over his face.
> 
> Trip just shook his head. He'd been _very_ careful about that. Every single word was true. That's what had taken him so long.
> 
> "I mean, how can you say Malcolm is…" Jonathan glanced over at Malcolm who struggled with his own letter, picking it up and putting down several times without adding a thing.
> 
> Trip raised a single eyebrow. _Oh, and you're the psychologist now?_ There was nothing Jonathan could do to stop him from sending the letter and he knew that Jonathan knew it. _What, buddy? You scared?_
> 
> "Fine, then." Jonathan snatched up Trip's letter and tucked it into the envelope he'd brought to collect them in. "If you want to play those kind of games… be my guest." He leaned in close so only Trip could hear, "I just wonder what your 'friend' would think if he knew your opinion of him."
> 
> _I guess I hit a nerve_. Trip shrugged, watching as it infuriated Jonathan further. _What's the matter? You can't handle it anymore?_ And he'd thought this guy was good. So much for appearances. He leaned back on his bunk and closed his eyes, effectively dismissing Jonathan from his consciousness.
> 
> "If I'm ever tempted to become a parent, I'll just remember you, hotshot." Jonathan muttered it just loud enough for Trip to hear.
> 
> _Didn't work for mine_. No, they had to go and have two more just to try to get it right. Trip fought back a sigh and waited for Jonathan to go away.
> 
> # # # #
> 
> _I am definitely going to be fired. Or arrested._ Jonathan trudged up to the main hall, the envelope heavy in his hand. He'd have to download and send Tucker's letter intact… otherwise it would look like he was hiding something, which would be worse. The funny thing was that it wasn't apprehension that held top spot in his emotions -- it was disappointment. _I thought he had more to him than that_. The _last_ thing he expected was for _this_ kid to run crying to Mommy and Daddy.
> 
> _Then again, maybe that's his problem_. It would certainly explain the spoiled brat attitude. If he were allowed to get away with everything at home… then he wouldn't take well to dealing with rules.
> 
> Jonathan sighed. "Oh, God. I just don't know anymore." At least Tucker's parents _had_ signed the release forms, even if they hadn't fully read them. It gave him small comfort though.
> 
> "Anyone begging to go home, yet?" Dino ran up behind him and slapped Jonathan on the shoulder. "I got about three. 'The food stinks.' 'I'm bored.'" He shook his head. "Every year."
> 
> Wordlessly Jonathan handed Dino Tucker's letter.
> 
> "Whoa." Dino handed it back. "You aren't seriously going to send that, are you? I mean on the bright side, Mommy and Daddy will probably yank him out of here, and you won't have to deal with it anymore."
> 
> "Yeah, well I am never going to get into the Academy with a criminal record – no matter _who_ my father is. This kid… this kid is going to ruin my career."
> 
> "Jeeze, lighten up, Jon. They can't touch you if you haven't done anything, right? And we'll all swear what a brat the kid is… no way he'll get away with it."
> 
> _He's gotten away with everything else_. Jonathan's shoulders slumped. "It's just… he's got no idea how far too far is. Malcolm? The one he calls 'unbalanced?' That's the one person who's been willing to put up with him this entire time. And that's," he slapped the letter for emphasis, "how Tucker pays him back. Unbalanced. Like Tucker should talk."
> 
> "Like you should, Jon." Dino grinned. "Come on… who's gonna believe something like that anyway? I mean _maybe_ his parents… if they're the 'precious-boy' type…"
> 
> "His father's namesake? There's a high possibility." Oh, God, _why_ of all people did _he_ have to get saddled with Tucker? "All I know is that I am not looking forward to this."
> 
> Dino made some sympathetic noises then loped off ahead.
> 
> _Yeah, right, pal. Be there when I need ya._ It wasn't Dino's fault. But Jonathan still couldn't help feeling a little betrayed.
> 
> # # # #
> 
> "So, what did you write about?" They'd been given an hour's worth of free time and Trip had taken off as soon as Jonathan left. He'd only paused briefly to give Malcolm a chance to catch up before heading off into the woods.
> 
> "Oh, stuff. Letting the family know what's been happening. Nothing much." Trip picked up a small piece of debris from the ground and threw it.
> 
> "I didn't really write anything. I couldn't think of anything to say." Malcolm stopped, not even realising he had.
> 
> Trip turned around, two paces later. "Nothing to say? What? I'm that boring a personality?"
> 
> Malcolm shook his head, rapidly. "No. No. But…I can't tell them about you. I mean… my father thinks rules are important and they're supposed to be obeyed. He'd say I wasn't supposed to talk to you again, if I told him."
> 
> Trip grinned. "You know, I think that's the biggest compliment I've received all year. So you're going with 'it's better to ask forgiveness…'"
> 
> "Actually I think that it's 'it's _easier_ to ask forgiveness.' It's probably better to ask permission." Which is why Malcolm had always done it. Somehow, though, he didn't feel like asking now. No matter _what_ Trip said about _him_ in his letter home. He'd caught Jonathan's question about 'how could you say that?' but it didn't matter. Trip hadn't said anything truly nasty to his face, which was novel in and of itself.
> 
> "Whatever. God, though: the look on Jonathan's face…" Trip smirked. "I wish I had my camera." He paused for a moment. "So, what makes your dad so big on the rules anyway?"
> 
> "He's Royal Navy," Malcolm explained. "Reeds have been RN for several generations now. I was supposed to be the next."
> 
> "Supposed to?" Trip pulled back like a horse confronted by something strange. "So you're not planning to follow family tradition."
> 
> Malcolm blushed and looked down at the ground. "I'm afraid of drowning," he mumbled.
> 
> "What?" Trip closed the gap between them. "You're what?"
> 
> "I'm afraid of drowning." Malcolm's head snapped up and he stared Trip right in the face. "Are you happy?"
> 
> "Well, only if it makes you happy. Personally, I don't think it's that big a deal. I mean, I can't imagine myself being afraid of drowning… what with living on the ocean and all…but everybody's got something, right?" He said the last part a little to manically, as though he was trying not to think about something.
> 
> "I've heard you do a lot of diving." Malcolm couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Trip Tucker coming close to confessing a weakness? He felt it prudent to change the subject.
> 
> Trip's eyes lit up like they were battery-powered. "I love it. It's got to be the greatest thing in the world. I mean it's just you and the water… it's so…amazing. There's a whole other world down there, and almost nobody ever sees it. It's like… coral. Everybody thinks it's a rock or something… but when you're down there… looking at it… you can tell it's _alive_. There's so many colours…it's just…amazing."
> 
> "I wish I had the courage to do something like that. I just…"
> 
> "Hey." Trip dropped down so he was sitting on the damp earth. "It's not that big a deal. I mean – like I said – I'm not afraid of drowning. If I was… I don't think I'd do it either." He kicked at the dirt. "So, what _are_ you planning to do?"
> 
> "I don't know. I'm only ten. Do you know what you're going to do?"
> 
> Trip shrugged. "Well, my mom wants me to be an architect… but Dad says I'd do better as an engineer. I'm leaning that way, myself. I mean I love building things and seeing how things work. _And_ I'm thinking of going to Starfleet Academy as soon as I'm out of school. Can you imagine? Going to alien worlds… having adventures out there in the stars… that would be the best thing in the entire universe." His face darkened. "I probably won't get in though. I hear they're pretty strict about grades, and since I've got Mr. Calvin-the-dick for Math… not to mention what my English teacher thinks of me. 'Oh, Trip,'" he mimicked, "'surely you could make an _attempt_ to do the reading assignments.' Like I _care_ about what some dead guy had to say about impressing a girl with all his shirts. If they'd let us read anything interesting…"
> 
> "What do you mean, interesting?" Malcolm couldn't understand the non-reader mentality. _How_ could someone not find a story interesting? He loved stories – it was another fatal flaw, according to his father.
> 
> "Oh, I don't know. Stuff like… H.G. Wells -- _War of the Worlds_. Or that British guy… Doyle? _The Lost World?_ I mean, can you imagine coming face-to-face with a dinosaur?" He sighed. "Just think about it: getting to meet a stegosaurus."
> 
> "Who'd probably eat you." So obviously, Trip was a pulp fan.
> 
> "Stegosaurus was a herbivore." He also knew more about dinosaurs than Malcolm. "He might smack you with his tail, but he wouldn't eat you."
> 
> "Oh." Malcolm had never considered the alternatives before, but Starfleet sounded interesting. Sure it would be in space… but there was no water in space. _You could suffocate_… true… but he couldn't drown. Besides, if Trip were going to be in Starfleet… at least there'd be someone there not already inclined to hate him.
> 
> "But how come you get bad grades? You're smart enough, right?"
> 
> Trip snorted. "Like that means anything. I don't do things their way, so I don't get the marks. 'It doesn't matter if you get it right, just so long as you show all your work.' What kind of reasoning is that? If you don't get it right, how can you say you know it? And if you _do_ get it right, who cares how you figured it out?"
> 
> Malcolm sat down beside him. "Isn't that so they can tell where you're going wrong when you _don't_ get it right?"
> 
> "Well, that would make sense, if I didn't get it right. The only time I get it wrong is when I do it their way. It's just stupid. And… of course… they _insist_ on a full complement of homework. Mr. Calvin especially loves the homework." Trip made a face.
> 
> "Well, that should be easy, then… shouldn't it? Just do the homework and you'll get the marks."
> 
> Trip rolled his eyes. "And what's the point? Either I know it… so doing it over and over and over again isn't going to make me know it any better… or I don't, at which point it does me no good to sit there staring at it not understanding a thing. I've got better things to do with my life than waste it on homework."
> 
> "But if you want to get into Starfleet Academy…"
> 
> "That's what my dad says. He says sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get what you want. I'm twelve years old. Four hours of homework a night isn't a sacrifice… it's cruel and unusual."
> 
> "Four _hours_?"
> 
> "Well, maybe not four hours, _every_ night. But there's homework in every subject. English, Math, Science, Computers… even my Electronics class has homework. And since I want to take CAD next year… it's only going to get worse."
> 
> "Cad?" Malcolm hadn't realised you could take lessons in that.
> 
> "Computer Aided Drafting. Just in case I do go with my mom's suggestion, though it'll help with the engineering too." He picked up a stick and began doodling in the dirt. "Plus there's all the sports stuff… the good thing about being here is I get a break from baseball this summer."
> 
> "I heard you were good at baseball." Actually, he'd heard that Trip was _very_ good at baseball, though the other kids had made it sound like a bad thing.
> 
> "I am. But that's only 'cause I've got a couple of different pitches and I can psyche out the batter. I can't hit… and anyway, my coach was getting on my nerves. He keeps screaming at me to get better control and stop throwing so many wild pitches… how does he think I scare the guy at the plate? Long as they think that they could get hit, they aren't so confident in what's coming down the line."
> 
> "Oh. I didn't know there was so much to it." Malcolm hated team sports, if only because he was always chosen last -- if chosen at all. "I mean, it sounds as though there's a lot of strategy."
> 
> "If you play it right," Trip agreed. "I mean, you can win any game if you pull a big enough head trip on your opponent. No matter how good they are, if they begin to doubt it… if you can play to their weaknesses… you can win. The problem is that the league thinks that everybody should just have fun, so if you humiliate the other guy too much, it's wrong. I've managed to hurt some people's feelings… but if you can't take it, you shouldn't play." His eyes narrowed. "And that's _any_ game. Those chess geeks don't like me either."
> 
> "I thought so. They didn't seem to have a lot of nice things to say about you." That had made him curious: in his experience, athletes like Trip were the ones everybody _wanted_ to know.
> 
> "_Nobody_ has a lot of nice things to say about me. Which is why I don't have a lot of nice things to say about them." Trip glanced over at Malcolm. "So. What do you do when you're not being shipped off to the middle of nowhere?"
> 
> "Not much. I'm too small for sports, really. It's a disappointment to my father… he's very much into athletics. I read a lot. Military history…stuff like that." He knew it sounded so lame compared to what Trip did, but he couldn't pretend to be anything else.
> 
> "Wow. That is cool." Strangely, Trip didn't seem to be condescending. "Most guys I know… it's either comic-books – which is okay if they're _good_ comics like _Sandman_, but most of their stuff isn't – or sports magazines."
> 
> "Most people just think it's strange."
> 
> Trip shook his head. "No, strange is when you read tech-manuals. And take notes. _I'm_ strange."
> 
> "You just have to win at everything, don't you?" Malcolm looked over at his friend – yes, he supposed that would be how to classify Trip – then shook his head, smiling.
> 
> Trip grinned. "When I can. Face it, kid, no matter what those bully-boys have told you, you do not have a lock on the 'Freak of the Year' award. Though if you did…" Trip's face grew more thoughtful, "you might not have half the problems with them that you do."
> 
> "What do you mean?"
> 
> "I may not have a lot of friends, but nobody pushes me around, either."
> 
> Malcolm didn't think it prudent to mention Jonathan at this point.
> 
> Trip brought him up instead. "I mean, Jonathan? Pure amateur. Doesn't even bother me. Nobody tries to make me scared of them, because they've got no idea how I'll react. Remember what I said about wild pitches?"
> 
> Malcolm nodded.
> 
> "Well… the batter gets nervous because he doesn't know what I'm going to throw at him. The same with everybody else: they don't bully me because they don't know what's going to happen. I mean, for all they know, I could snap and kill them. So they leave me alone."
> 
> "Like what you did with Jonesy." Suddenly Malcolm understood why no retaliation had happened after the mess hall incident.
> 
> "Now there's a guy who needs remedial training. Tell me, do you think they use special genetic techniques to make 'em that stupid? Maybe he escaped from a special breeding program." Trip's eyes twinkled. "Giant chickens. For those special dinners. People just _think_ he's human. I know!" Trip pounded the ground with both fists, laughing. "We've got to turn him in to the scientists. He's the missing link between humans and swamp sludge."
> 
> "Jonesy's not chicken." Once again Malcolm found himself awed by the older boy's recklessness. Didn't he have any idea how vicious Jonesy could be?
> 
> "Yeah he is, that's why he picks on you. Him and his buddies… get any of them alone and they'd collapse like an old boat shack in a hurricane. But _your_ problem is: you're too _nice_. You don't have what it takes to be really, really nasty."
> 
> "I could." From anyone else, Malcolm would've taken the abuse -- would've accepted the fact that he _was_ too weak, too nice. But from Trip – who so far had been almost supportive… it came like a slap.
> 
> The sly grin crept back on to Trip's face. "You wanna try? You wanna learn?"
> 
> Malcolm nodded. To be able to get back at Jonesy… to get free…
> 
> "Okay. But you gotta remember. There is no such thing as fair in things like this. And there's no rules and no such thing as going halfway. It's all or nothing. Are you in?"
> 
> "Yes." Malcolm thought for a second, then repeated himself more emphatically. "_Yes_."
> 
> Trip rubbed his hands together. "Okay. We start then. I bet ol' Jonesy has thrown you in the water once or twice, right?"
> 
> _Every chance he gets_. Malcolm didn't even need to say it: he knew the panic was written all over his face.
> 
> "So, what's he afraid of? And don't tell me you don't know. A guy like you sees and hears _everything_. There's got to be something that scares him…"
> 
> # # # #
> 
> _ If I'd had any guts, I wouldn't have sent the damn thing. If I'd had any _sense_ I wouldn't have sent the damn thing._ Tucker's letter ate at Jonathan all night. For once the kid stayed in the cabin, and Jonathan _still_ couldn't get any sleep. What would Tucker's parents think? Would they peg him as some sort of pervert for taking Trip's clothes? You could never tell with parents. Most of the time, with the trouble kid came trouble parents. Kid burns down the cabin: 'Oh, our Mikey couldn't have been responsible for that.' Or worse yet: 'He's just special.' Jonathan's first year here, a counsellor had quit after a parent tore a strip off of him just for telling their kid 'No.' Jonathan had gone a lot farther than that…
> 
> He greeted the campers with bruised eyes the next morning and didn't even bother to try and get Tucker out of bed. Instead he just herded the rest of them to the showers and breakfast, unable to eat any himself. _I am a dead man. I am not going to eat bran mush for my last meal_.
> 
> "Hey, Jon." Kendricks came running up, just after breakfast, holding a pad in his hand. Word had spread -- _Thanks, D, I owe you one_ -- throughout the camp about Tucker's letter and Jonathan's concern. Now Kendricks looked worried, too. "This just came in for you, this morning. It's from Florida. I think it's that Tucker kid's parents."
> 
> _Oh, God_. Jonathan extended his hand and accepted the pad, regretting suddenly his lack of breakfast. Throwing up was bad; dry heaves were worse. Sure enough, the return address was Panama City, Florida and it was addressed to Jonathan Archer, counsellor, care of the camp. Nervously he opened the file, and burst out laughing. Kendricks stared at him like he was insane, but he didn't care. "Thanks, pal. I've got to go deliver this." He followed his charges down to the cabin, unable to keep the smile from his face. Stepping in the door, he tossed the pad up onto the top bunk. "Letter from home for you, hotshot."
> 
> A dishevelled head emerged from the sleeping bag to glare at him. Then a hand reached out and picked up the pad. The look on Tucker's face when he read it was priceless: a mixture of amusement and disgust. Almost like he'd been expecting it, and was disappointed that no one had managed to surprise him.
> 
> Jonathan laughed again and headed off to his room, savouring the look, savouring the single line that comprised the entire letter: _Keep up the good work_.
> 
> Apparently, the kid wasn't the only one in his family with a sense of humour. Jonathan reminded himself to buy the Tuckers a nice thank-you gift when all of this was over. In return for the one they'd just given him. _Beat you, hotshot_.
> 
> # # # #
> 
> "Dickhead," Trip muttered after the departing Jonathan, then snuggled back down in his sleeping bag. The guy probably thought he'd won this round -- had no idea how badly he'd lost. _I had you going for an entire day_. Had the jerk actually figured his parents would _buy_ that crap? He giggled silently even now, thinking about it. 'your loving son, Charles?' Yeah, like that wasn't a clue. The day Mom and Dad fell for that…_is the day I write home to tell you I'm dead_. They probably wouldn't even believe that -- even if they were presented with a body. They'd wait for a few days, just to make sure he didn't get up.
> 
> _They're just too damn used to me by now_. Nowadays Mom didn't even scream when she found an eyeball in the spaghetti, or a severed finger in the stew-pot. She just hollered for him to come down and take it out, and to stop watching those damned horror movies. And if there was company… well he either behaved himself or didn't see dinner at all.
> 
> Idly, he wondered who was baby-sitting his siblings over the summer. Mom and Dad might have been able to find _someone_, now that Trip wasn't there to help with the interviews. Like the time he'd come in, covered in gore and dropped down onto the middle of the white living room rug to take apart the transmission out of the lawnmower. The babysitter took one look at this kid – whose forehead still oozed – and ran screaming in the other direction. _That_ had earned him You're In Big Trouble Now, Young Man and a good swat on the butt. And he'd had to scrub the carpet until he had all the grease (and blood) out of it. That had been two years ago, but word spread quickly and nobody was willing to take on the Tucker Terror. Finally his parents bowed to necessity and let Trip take on the job himself. That was one thing he'd never let them regret, learning to cook, clean and organize with the best of them. _I do a pretty mean French-braid, too_ – a necessary skill when looking after Elizabeth, whose hair had a tendency to tie itself in knots if not restrained.
> 
> He sighed. _That_ part of the letter had been completely true. He _did_ miss the two of them, even if they were a couple of pains in the ass. _But they're _my_ pains in the ass. Whoever's looking after them better damn well be doing it right._ Like remembering that Elizabeth liked her macaroni with parmesan, but James would only eat cheddar. Or that Mr. Boos had to be hand washed and fluff dried – never hanged. He _knew_ they wouldn't be getting Storytime, at least not the _right_ Storytime. Elizabeth was probably being read something about Mr. Bunsy right now… when they'd been all the way up to Chapter Six of _The Shining_. According to her teacher, her reading skills were way above those for a child her age. _Sorry about that_. He knew from experience what a problem that could be – pitching a fit at daycare when he was four years old because the stupid jerks wouldn't let him near the books; they'd just assumed he'd destroy them because after all, four year olds can't read. Like everything else, he'd taught himself how to do it mostly because he'd never been told that he couldn't.
> 
> _I can't believe I'm actually getting homesick_. Sick _of_ home, yeah, but _homesick_? _Just because I didn't want to come here doesn't mean I wanted to be at _home. Besides, homesick was for people who needed Mommy and Daddy for everything, not people who were capable of being independent.
> 
> "Are you all right there, hotshot?" Somehow Jonathan must've snuck up on him without him noticing, and seen the look on his face when he thought about his brother and sister. Quickly he resumed his usual glare then turned his face to the wall.
> 
> "We're going swimming, hotshot. You ought to enjoy that."
> 
> He could almost sense Malcolm turning pale on the lower bunk. "I don't swim. Malcolm and I are staying here and taking up knitting."
> 
> Jonathan started to laugh and turned it into a snort. "Good one, hotshot. But I happen to know you're a certified diver. _And_ a swim champ. Now let's move."
> 
> "Well, since I'm so good, I obviously don't need the practice. Now f…" He buried the last two words in the pillow, but Jonathan picked them up anyway.
> 
> "If you're gonna swear, say it to my face. Don't go hiding away if you think you're that tough."
> 
> Obediently, Trip turned over and looked him straight in the eye. "Fuck off." He rolled back to face the wall, ignoring the shocked giggles behind him.
> 
> Jonathan sighed. Trip could tell the guy was trying not to lose it, again. "Now that we've got that over with. Out. Lake. Swim."
> 
> "No." He knew Malcolm didn't have the guts to stand up to Jonathan, and he also knew what happened to aquaphobics in the water. _You panic, you freeze up. You freeze up in the water: you die._ He'd seen it happen once… the guy had been lucky enough that the doctors were able to bring him back, but it wasn't an experience that Trip wanted to repeat.
> 
> "Tucker…"
> 
> He sat up. "No. En, oh, NO. I'm not going."
> 
> Jonathan reached out and grabbed Trip's arm. Trip lashed out with his other hand and caught Jonathan across the face.
> 
> Jonathan dropped Trip's arm like he'd been burned "Fine. You can stay here. But you are not getting work detail for that one, pal. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with you yet, but I can guarantee it's something you're not going to like." He looked down at Malcolm. "Are you coming?"
> 
> "No, sir." Malcolm's voice came out weak and shaky. Poor kid, had to be caught between a rock and a hard place on this one.
> 
> _I'm sorry. It's all I could think of_. Trip could feel himself shaking as unused adrenaline raced through his system. He knew if he'd been pulled out then Malcolm would have gone too…_and then they'd really tease you, if you _didn't_ end up drowning._ At least now they'd still blame it on Trip 'Bad Influence' Tucker and the kid would be okay.
> 
> "All right then. But you do not leave this cabin. _Either_ of you. I find out you did, and you'll be shipped home instantly. And funny, but I don't think your parents would be too happy about that, hotshot."
> 
> "Kiss my ass." Trip kept his voice gruff, so Jonathan wouldn't figure out how close he was to tears. It shouldn't have played out like this, it shouldn't have gone this far. _It was all I could think of._ He couldn't let Jonathan take him this time… he'd had to stop it fast. _It was all I could think of…_
> 
> "You know, hotshot, I am the wrong guy to be telling that to." With that, Jonathan ushered the rest of them out the door and closed it behind him.


	6. Realignment

Disclaimer:  Not my characters.  This story is written for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note:  Thank you so much for the interest and reviews.  If anyone wants an email when I update… feel free to let me know.  My email is on my profile page.  Thanks again.  And Please… keep me informed as to what you think.

**Chapter 6:  Realignment.**

            "Why did you do that?"  Malcolm waited until Jonathan was gone then climbed up to the top bunk to sit beside Trip.  "You didn't have to do that."

            "They would have made you go in.  Otherwise you would've had to say in front of everybody that you were scared, and then they'd never let up on you.  This way it's my fault."  Trip sat with his back against the wall and his head down on his knees.  "He probably _will_ send me home.  Not that I really _care_, but I'm sorry for you that we can't continue with the whole Jonesy thing."

            "Well, _I_ care.  Nobody's ever gotten into trouble to help me out, before."  Not like this, anyway.  Especially not just to save his feelings.

            "Yeah, well nobody's ever volunteered to get _into_ trouble with me before.  Why the hell did you do it?"

            "I don't know.  It seemed like the right thing to do.  You weren't the only one out after curfew… even if you were the one with the cigarettes."  There was more to it than that, but Malcolm couldn't pinpoint what it was.  Well, he could, but he wasn't going to tell Trip that he'd felt sorry for him.  That he'd recognised a lonely soul and realised he'd found a twin.  He could see that loneliness again now, in the way Trip pulled into himself completely.  Trip might _say_ he didn't care…

            "Yeah, well, you're on your own now." With a jerk, Trip straightened up and Malcolm could see he'd been crying.  " 'Cause I'm not going to wait for Mr. Perfect.  He wants me to go home?  Fine.  I'll go."  He slid down off the bunk and didn't even bother to grab his things.  Instead, he reached out and clasped Malcolm's hand in a quick shake.  "It was very nice to meet you… it's been interesting… don't forget to write."  He let go and opened the door.

            "Trip!"  Malcolm slid down after him, but too late.  Trip had already cleared the porch and was well down the path.  _Oh, hell_.  He could chase after and get a strip torn off him, or go back inside and hate himself.  He darted after the bigger boy, having to sprint to catch up.  He grabbed Trip's sleeve and planted his feet.

            Trip jerked to a stop.  "Let go."

            "No.  Now come on.  I'll explain to Jonathan later."

            Trip's eyes widened in – Malcolm realised – fear.  "Don't you _dare_.  Don't you _dare_ tell him _anything_."

            "Then stay.  Either you stay, or I tell Jonathan everything."  It felt strange, this power over someone else.  He could see why Jonesy liked it so much, why he took every advantage he could.  Yet at the same time he felt like shit.  Trip was willing to get into trouble for him, and all he could do was blackmail.  _I don't see any other way, though_.  He couldn't physically drag Trip back to the cabin.

            He could see the internal battle waging in Trip's head.  Trip simply didn't give in, but at the same time, the wager was too high for him to lose.  Finally Trip's head dropped and he trudged back to the cabin.

            _Thank goodness Jonathan didn't catch us_.  The counsellor had been mad enough that Malcolm knew he'd follow through on his threat to send them home.

# # # #

            "Dad, I don't know what I'm going to do.  I've never met a kid like this before."  Jonathan had left the others in the care of one of the another counsellor and gone to the main cabin to phone his father.  "He's impossible."

            "He's twelve, Jon.  You remember twelve, don't you?"

            "I remember I didn't go around hitting people."  His face still hurt where Tucker had slapped him.  He supposed he should be thankful it wasn't a closed fist.  "Or pulling off midnight burglaries.  This isn't a kid, Dad; it's a miniature felon.  _And_ he's pulling one of the other kids down along with him."

            "Start at the beginning, Jon.  And this time, tell me everything."

            Jonathan did, starting with that first rude conversation and finishing up with his parting shot.  "Like I said, Dad…"

            "Don't you think it's a little strange that he's let you manhandle him all those times before, but when it comes to this he turns violent?  This boy who stayed behind with him, is this the one who's been following him around?"

            "Malcolm," Jonathan confirmed.  "From what I can tell, he's a good kid.  And Tucker's…"

            "Go back to Malcolm.  How did he react?"

            _Malcolm?_  Half the time the kid simply faded into the background.  "He…" He'd seemed shocked, but not at the violence itself.  And for the first time… it hadn't been 'yes, sir'.  "He seemed surprised at something… and relieved, too, when I said he didn't have to go."  He'd been too angry to see it before.  Malcolm had gone into a panic when Jonathan mentioned swimming.  "It was like…like he'd just been rescued."

            Henry Archer chuckled.  "Ten says that Tucker is the oldest."

            "In his family?  No bet there, Dad.  He's got a younger brother and sister."

            "Mmhmn.  And you say Malcolm is younger than he is?  Sounds like your boy has got a protective streak a mile wide -- probably the sensitive type, too."

            "Malcolm, yeah.  Tucker?  I don't even think he has sensitive skin."

            "Why do you think he acts so tough, Jon?  You were the same way at his age.  Nothing ever hurt you.  You wanted to be all grown up.  So does he."

            "Well, then why doesn't he act like it, instead of acting like a two-year-old?"

            "What do grownups do, Jon?"  Jonathan recognised the type of question.  It was the kind his father asked when he had a lesson in mind.

            "Bathe.  Eat.  Not hit people…"

            "They make their own decisions.  They accept the consequences of their actions.  Sounds like your hotshot is better at it than some adults I've met.  Has he ever _once_ tried to get out of anything?  Tried to blame anybody else?"

            "No."  He remembered having the same thoughts, himself.  "It's like a game to him.  And he keeps…"

            "Upping the ante.  He wants you to react, Jon.  He wants you to _overreact_.  I've met the type – you get enough of them around here.  He's trying to see how far he can push things  -- he'd probably make one hell of an engineer.  I'll place another ten on the fact that he's probably more freaked out about what he did than you are."

            "Dad, his last words to me were 'Kiss my ass.'  He wasn't exactly freaked out."

            "Jon.  He's twelve.  Twelve is when everything, and I mean _everything_ changes.  You said he's a football player, right?  What position?"

            "Quarterback."

            "The best defence is a good offence.  It's probably been drilled into him for years.  So he gets scared and he lashes out.  Drives you downfield.  You've always been more into water-polo, but what happens when you let the other guy know you're scared?"

            "He's got you psyched out.  When you think you've lost…"

            "So you get up in his face instead.  Try to psyche him out.  It doesn't mean you're not scared.  It just means you're not going to go down easy."

            "So, what am I supposed to do, Dad?  Common sense says I should send him home, but when it comes to this kid, common sense does not apply."

            "He probably expects you to send him home.  He's probably got his bags packed already just so he can pretend he doesn't care.  You say you want to beat him Jon?    Show him that it's possible to back down and not lose face.  Give _him_ a chance to back down.  _Teach_ him that it's sometimes okay to fold on a bad hand."

            "Dad, how can I teach him anything if I can't get through to him?"

            "You already _have_, Jon.  The stunts you've told me he's been pulling?  What's the net result?"

            "Work Detail.  I don't sleep."

            "You pay attention to him.  You _notice_ him.  And from the sounds of these stunts… he's trying to impress you, Jon."

            "By wrecking my clothes?  By pissing me off?"

            "By showing you how smart he is.  How capable he is.  Remember what I said about wanting to be grown up?  The work detail you've been giving him… that's grown-up work.  I'm not surprised that he excels at it.  He's picked you to be his big-brother.  I guess the real question here is… do you really believe he's a pint-size criminal, or do you think that there's something there worth straightening out?  And if it's the latter, do you think you can accomplish that if you send him away?"

            Jonathan sighed.  As usual his dad had managed to get right to the heart of things.  As angry and shocked as he was, Jonathan _didn't_ want to send the hotshot home.  _Especially not if he was trying to help Malcolm_.  If that _was_ the case, then he'd already come a long way from the piss-everybody-off loner he'd started out as. 

            Replaying the incident again, he saw the shakes -- saw the terror in Tucker's eyes an instant after the blow connected.  _He didn't plan that one.  Everything else has had some level of pre-meditation but…_  "What am I supposed to do, Dad?  I can't give him work detail, that'll be a reward to him.  I have to do something… or the others will take it as a cue to get away with everything."

            "Is he smart, Jon?"

            "Yeah.  Probably too smart.  Why?"

            "Then there is something you can do.  It might even work, but you've got to trust in his intelligence."

            "Okay, Dad.  I'm listening."

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

            He didn't even make it back to the cabin before he encountered Malcolm running the other way.  _What the hell?_  _Tucker_ he could understand, but Malcolm?

            "You've got to come quickly.  He's sick.  It's really bad."  Malcolm grabbed Jonathan's hand and began pulling him back towards the cabin.

            "If this is a prank…"

            "No.  He's really sick."  Malcolm let go and started running back the way he'd come.

            "Shit."  Jonathan broke into a run, easily passing the younger boy within a couple of steps.  He opened the door of the cabin and found no sign of Tucker.  "You little…"  He caught sight of something on the floor, a small wet spot like someone with nothing in their stomach had tried to throw up.  Then he heard the whimper.

            Dropping to his knees, he peered under the lower bunk.  Huddled in the relative darkness was Tucker, curled up in a ball with his hands over his ears.  "Hey."  Jonathan reached out and gently touched the boy on his shoulder.

            Tucker pulled away, this time with a pained moan.  Jonathan saw a shudder run through the kid.  _Oh, fuck_.

            "He said he was getting a headache, sir."  Malcolm had finally caught up, and stood by Jonathan's shoulder.  "Then he got sick… and I came to get you."

            "Thank you."  He reached up and patted Malcolm on the shoulder, then reached under the bed again.  "Come on, kid.  Let's get you out of there and to the nurse."

            Again he saw the wince and heard the whimper.  "It's okay."  Slowly he pulled Tucker out, and realised that the boy's eyes were tightly shut.  "It's…" His voice trailed off in shock as Tucker buried his face in Jonathan's shirt.  It had to be bad… whatever this was, if the hotshot was going for personal contact with _him_.  He felt Tucker's forehead but couldn't find evidence of a fever.  "We are definitely getting you to the nurse."  Even more frightening:   the kid didn't even try to protest.  Instead, he went into another round of dry heaves, never letting go of Jonathan.  _I don't know if that's on purpose or not_.

            Despite his size, the kid was heavy… every ounce on him was solid muscle.  Still, Jonathan could think of no choice but to carry him.  He obviously couldn't walk…but Jonathan didn't want to leave him under the bunk either.

            He moved as quickly as he dared, not wanting to jostle Tucker any more than necessary.  Malcolm trotted alongside, his face full of concern.

            "Is he going to be okay?  We were just talking, and then he said he was getting a headache, and then he tried to be sick… what's wrong with him?"

            "I don't know," Jonathan confessed.  It seemed unreal for _Tucker_ to be the fragile one.  There'd been nothing in the file:  no allergies, no health alerts.  On paper, Tucker was healthier than he was.  Yet he knew it wasn't an act… even this kid wasn't that good.

            Malcolm opened the door to the nurse's cabin and then ran across to the bed. He hovered beside the bed, practically vibrating.

            "What have we here?"  The nurse came over, a look of concern on his face.  "Somebody…"

            "I don't know.  Apparently he's sick, has a headache.  I found him under one of the bunks."  Jonathan lowered Tucker down to the bed, noting how the kid didn't let go until he was in a position to turn his face into the pillow.

            "What happened?"  The nurse pulled out a scanner and began running it over Tucker.

            Malcolm repeated the story again.  "Is he going to be okay?"

            The nurse nodded, placing a finger to his lips.  He then went over and dimmed the lights in the cabin, before motioning Jonathan and Malcolm outside.  Only when the door was closed did he speak.  "Does his file say anything about him being prone to migraines?"

            Jonathan shook his head.  "Migraines?  He's twelve."

            "Kids _can_ get them.  It's more than just a bad headache:  it's a collection of symptoms.  The headache is part of it, as is the nausea.  It also comes with a sensitivity to light and sound… some people even experience intense anxiety around other people.  Now, anything I'm allowed to give him isn't going to touch it.  We can either take him to the hospital, or we can let it run its course.  It's not fatal, but it will keep him out of commission for a while."

            "He should make that decision."  Actually, it wasn't Tucker's decision at all… not according to any reasonable interpretation of the rules.  But if Henry Archer was right, and Tucker's greatest desire was to be treated like an adult… Jonathan pushed open the door and walked as quietly as he could up to the bed.

            "Hey, hotshot."  He spoke softly, keeping in mind the nurse's words about sensitivity to sound.  "The nurse here says you can either stay – and let this end on its own – or go to the hospital.  Do you want to go to the hospital?"  He carefully phrased it to leave a yes or no answer.  He didn't want Tucker to have to say too much if he didn't want to.

            "No."  Pain drenched the voice, backed up by the stubbornness that defined this kid.

            "Okay."  Jonathan stepped back from the bed.  "We'll be waiting for you when you decide you can rejoin us.  I want to talk to you when you're feeling better."  Somehow that had been the answer he expected.  _This is not a kid who picks the easy way out._  He looked at the nurse – who shook his head – and they both went back outside.

            "That is not the answer I would have picked."  The nurse gave a low whistle.  "That is either one very tough, or one very stubborn kid."

            "I'll give you the stubborn."  Jonathan glanced back towards the closed door.  "Which is why I thought he'd go that route."  His voice dropped until he spoke mostly to himself.  "God, forbid he show a weakness."  Still, he remembered the way Tucker had clung to him and how helpless the kid had seemed.  _Poor guy_.  Even as he thought it, he moved to dismiss the idea.  Except…  what had Dad said about the best defence? 

            Jonathan turned to Malcolm and dropped a hand on his shoulder.  "What I said to him about a talk applies to you too.  What do you say we start right now?"

            Malcolm nodded, all of the tension, and whatever fight he had, gone from his body.

            _I need your help here, kid.  You're the only one with any idea of what goes on in his head._  Which was something Jonathan needed to know, if he was going to stand a chance here.

# # # #

            _Shit_.  At least Malcolm had been the only one there when it hit.  He'd known, with that first wave to roll over his skull, what was coming next.  _I can't even have a fucking summer at camp…_ At least they'd turned the lights off in here, too.  It was dark and it was cool, which helped.  He'd freaked Malcolm out with the puking – the poor guy had probably never seen a full-blown migraine in action before.  Even his mom and dad didn't know about them:  all they knew was that he'd sometimes go hide out in his room and not come down for a while.  At school he'd escape to the bathroom:  all the better for losing your lunch in, anyway.  And now… not only did Malcolm know, but Jonathan knew too.  _Damnit_.

            It was the not eating, and not sleeping, and stress that did it:  he knew that.  They were always at their worst during summer – right in the middle of baseball season.  That let him pass it off as nerves sometimes:  after all, didn't stars get to have their quirks?  He'd go away and hide, and people would just pass it off as him going off to psyche himself up.  And if he missed the first couple of innings because he was too 'edgy' to pitch?  _Well, coach just throws me in as relief_.  The guy might take his head off over control… but he certainly had no problem keeping him on the team.  _Hypocrite_.  Did they think he couldn't see that?  Did they think he didn't know that they didn't want _him_ around, that if they could isolate his arm, they'd take only that?

            Another wave passed over him, and he scrunched his eyes tight.  _Shit_.  Funny, though:  Jonathan asking him if he wanted to go to the hospital.  Wasn't that supposed to be somebody else's decision?  Since when had anyone given a rat's ass what Trip Tucker wanted?  When he'd said 'no', he'd half expected to be overridden.  Not that it would've changed his answer any… he hated hospitals, even if he did spend a lot of time in them.  _And hospital would have been bad_.  Brightly lit and noisy… _yeah, that's just where I need to be_.

            It had been humiliating, too, the way he'd clung to Jonathan back in the cabin and on the way here.  But light and noise were the worst… they amped everything up.  Even the transition from under the bunk had set off another round of near puking.  _Now I wish I'd had breakfast_.  At least then he'd have had the satisfaction of being able to throw up on the guy.

            _And he still wants a 'talk'_.  What good were these things if they didn't even get you out of trouble?  He was quite willing to suffer:  if there was a point to it.  But these…_ what kind of gain is there for the punishment?_

            He lay on the bed for an hour, until the last wave subsided and left only grogginess in its wake.  Slowly he pushed himself to a sitting position and slid off the bed onto shaky legs.  He could do this now; he _would_ do this now.  _Into the valley of death, rode the ten thousand_… if he waited, he'd keep waiting. And that wasn't how Trip Tucker did things.

            He let himself out of the nurse's cabin, half-surprised to hear no protest.  Instead, he started off slowly towards the cabin.  _What's gonna happen is gonna happen.  You can either walk in there and face it…_ or run away forever.  Well, 'coward' was not a word in his personal dictionary.  If Jonathan wanted to deal…  well then they'd just have to deal, wouldn't they?

            The chatter of the other campers ceased as he walked in the door, refusing to look at any of them.  He walked straight through – past even Malcolm who looked lonely and worried on his bunk – and knocked on the rear door, two sharp knocks and nothing more.

            "Come in."  He could tell by the tone that he'd been expected, and that this time there would be no 'friendly counsellor' attitude.

            _Good.  Because I didn't buy it anyway_.  He opened the door and walked in, closing it tight behind him.  He said nothing, just waited for Jonathan to begin.

            "Tucker."  Jonathan remained seated on the bed, the only place to sit in the room.  "What _am_ I going to do with you?"

            _I really wouldn't know, sir_.  A sober, respectful side took over when serious trouble hit.  He braced himself for the words that he knew had to come next. _You're going home_.

            "I'm sorry about this afternoon…"

            _What?_  That wasn't in the script.  Wasn't Jonathan supposed to tell him that he'd gone too far, that the slap had been unacceptable?  He tried to keep the shock and confusion from his face, but knew that he failed badly.

            "…I should have recognised that there was a reason behind your behaviour, and I should have displayed more patience…"

            _No.  Those aren't your lines… those are my lines.  _I _hit_ you,_ remember?_ What the hell was Jonathan up to?  It _sounded_ like he actually meant what he was saying.  _This is all wrong_.

            "…I had a long talk with Malcolm earlier…"

            _Oh, shit_.  Not that he blamed the younger boy for caving – Malcolm didn't have the temperament to withstand an interrogation.

            "… which didn't prove very fruitful."

            _Oh.  Then what…_

            "But I know there was a reason for it, Tucker.  You pretty much told me that, yourself."

            _When?  I didn't say jack-_shit_ to you about why_.

            "I'm supposed to send you home, Tucker.  But I don't think that's the best course of action in this situation.  Do you?"  
            _I don't know._  This conversation was getting weirder by the word.  He wondered what kind of plants Jonathan had found out there in the woods and if he'd ingested any.  _Aren't you supposed to be yelling at me? Aren't you supposed to be at least _mad?

            "Because if I send you home… how do we move past this problem?  How do we resolve it?  And I really don't like loose ends, Tucker.  So I'm afraid you're going to have to stay."

            _And down the rabbit hole tumbled Trip Tucker_.  If this wasn't Wonderland, then he had no idea what it was.

            "But what we are going to do is hammer out some ground rules, got it?"  Jonathan reached behind him and pulled out a pad.   "The next time you're feeling sick… tell me, don't just haul off and plow me one."

            _Is that what you think it was_?  The migraine had come later.  Smacking Jonathan had nothing to do with him.  But if Jonathan wanted to think that… _keeps you away from Malcolm._  And kept him from thinking that Trip was a softie.  _I can't have that_.

            "And it's important to me that you accept my apology, Trip."

            Trip's head smacked around at the sound of his name.  Jonathan _never_ called him 'Trip.'  What the hell had happened to 'hotshot?'  And _accept_ Jonathan's apology?  He still hadn't figured out why Jonathan felt the need to apologise in the first place.

            "So, do you accept my apology?"

            Trip said nothing, just chewed his lip in a panic.  This had to be a trap of some sort.  People didn't just _apologise_ for making you hit them.  They told you that you weren't supposed to hit them.  They got mad at you.  _Hell, if it had been my dad, I wouldn't be able to sit for a week_.  It was one of the canon rules of the Tucker household:  You do not hit.  Okay, so maybe spankings… but no hitting.  Hitting was bad.  End of story.

            "Trip…"

            "Um…" He supposed it would be easiest to simply say 'yes', but the word didn't want to leave his throat.  He _wasn't_ getting away with this.  No way in _hell_ he was getting away with this.  He nodded, unable to trust himself to do anything else.

            Jonathan smiled.  "Good.  I'm glad.  I'll see you at dinner then."

            _Right.  Just as soon as I make sure the sky hasn't fallen in_.  He assumed he'd been told he could go, and scrambled to make his escape.  _That guy is crazy_.

# # # #

            Jonathan lay back on his bed.  That _had_ gone well, better than he had expected.  _Thank you, Dad_.  The old man had certainly called it right on that one.  Trip  -- might as well start, it suited him -- couldn't handle the change of pace.  According to Trip's rules, _he_ was supposed to be the unpredictable one and _Jonathan_ was supposed to follow established procedure.

            _I'll bet you expected me to yell at you_.  It had been his original plan, until speaking to his father.  And had been reminded that the best way to rattle a smart kid was by _not_ playing by established rules.  Now Trip had no idea what the rules _were_, and was probably going to be more cautious because of it.

            _"He always accepts the consequences_,_"_   Dad had reminded him when Jonathan questioned the strategy.  _"What's he going to do when there aren't any?  What's he going to do when there's nothing for him to push against?"_

            He'd _thought_ the kid would laugh at him.  Instead it had been just like Dad suspected:  Trip hadn't known how to handle it.  _He's not used to that sort of thing_.  It was like the kid lived by the laws of physics:  _Every action has an equal and opposite reaction_.  By taking away the opposing reaction, Jonathan had yanked the bottom out of Trip's world.

            _And that look on your face.  I never thought I'd see that…_  Trip's eyes had rolled back so far he must have been able to see his own brain.  For a dicey moment, Jonathan had thought that the kid was actually going to pass out on him.  He'd had to let Trip think that he thought the migraine had been the cause… had to give the boy some sort of escape route.  The truth was, Malcolm told him everything within seconds of Jonathan's questioning.  No _wonder_ he'd reacted so violently (and Tucker in turn) to the idea of going swimming.  And once he knew… he had to admit there was a certain elegance to Trip's methods.  If the other boys in the cabin had found out about Malcolm's fear, they might have teased him mercilessly.  This way… well, blaming Trip was status quo, wasn't it?

            Yeah, he could see that protective streak now.  Putting himself in danger to save someone smaller and weaker – like a mother bear protecting her cubs.  _Not that I think you'd appreciate being called a mother_.  He could see the sensitivity now, too.  Not a lot of kids his age would pick up on what a phobia meant and even less would have the sympathy to deal with it.

            A sudden rumble interrupted his thoughts, followed by a loud roar.  _Oh no_.  Those sounds only meant one thing.  He opened his door to see a bunch of campers staring out at the curtain of water that extended from the sky.  Instantly his own eyes went to the roof, looking for any signs of leaks.

            Tucker – funny, now that he was back in 'hostile' mode out here, it was Tucker again – seemed to be following Jonathan's train of thought.  A little more quickly, too, for he pulled his sleeping bag out of the way just before a drop came plunging down to the mattress.

            They looked at each other, Trip seeming to imply that it was Jonathan's fault.  _Hey.  You picked out that bunk, hotshot._  The drip grew steadily, but Trip didn't climb down.  Instead he sat just out of range of the water and pulled out his music player.

            "Sorry, guys.  Looks like the rest of today's stuff is cancelled.  It's just a thunderstorm, everything should be over soon."  He dreaded this more than anything:  the thought that eight easily-restless people would be confined to one small space.  _Better make that nine_.  Because, while he could escape to the back room, he still had to make sure these guys didn't kill each other.

            At least this time Tucker shouldn't be the problem.  He'd made himself comfortable up there, listening to music and reading something.  And taking notes.

            _Weird kid_.  Malcolm sat huddled on his own bunk while the rest of them regrouped on the other side of the cabin to play cards.  Poker, from the looks of things.

            _Don't let the hotshot play --_  there was little chance of that… their very body posture was designed to exclude Trip and Malcolm completely -- _you won't have anything left when he's done_.

            Satisfied that things were remaining peaceful – for now at least – Jonathan returned to his room.

# # # #

            A snicker from the card players caught Malcolm's attention.  He saw them glance his way, and the snicker turned into a laugh.

            "…baby…" He caught the single word of a whispered conversation, followed by more giggles.

            "I wonder what they do together on their long walks in the woods."  This time the comment was louder, voiced by Dutretre.

            _We talk.  Like human beings_.  _And it's a far more intelligent conversation than I could get from any of you_.  Malcolm tried to ignore them and imitated Trip's stare towards the ceiling.  It wasn't as easy as it looked – he realised – Trip must have had a lot of practice.

            There was another low mutter and then "…I bet the baby's good at that."

            _Oh, God why do you_…

            "Hey!"  A snap from the upper bunk cut into his thoughts.  "Shut the fuck up, asshole."  Malcolm could practically feel the glare that must be radiating towards the card game.

            "Actually, that's what we were discussing.  Do you like…"  Dutretre didn't even get to finish the sentence before Trip had crossed the room and was in his face.

            "You know… I don't really give a fuck about your fucking prejudiced little mind and all it's little paranoid fears.  Now I could say exactly the same fucking thing about you and your little asshole buddy here, but I don't.  Because it's crass… and it's stupid… and it's beneath me.  What I do give a crap about is you disturbing me while I'm trying to work.  Because unlike some people, I use my brain for a hell of a lot more than keeping my skull from imploding."

            _Oh, no._  Malcolm could see that Trip was seconds away from launching another blow, this time at Dutretre.  Trip's entire body had tensed and he leaned in until he practically breathed in Dutretre's face.

            "Hey.  Guys.  Break it up."  Jonathan came in from the other room.  "What's going on here?"  He took each of them by an arm and forced them apart.  "Can't I leave you for two seconds…"

            Trip twisted away and ran for the door.  He ran outside, and Malcolm heard him go down the stairs, heard the splashing as his friend ran away.

            "That does it.  They usually do a movie night on nights like this… but none of you are going."

            "But…" Dutretre's voice rose in protest.  "He was going to hit me.  We were just sitting here playing cards and…"

            _Liar._  Malcolm couldn't believe it.  _Trip_ would at least have taken his share of the blame.  In fact, Malcolm was willing to bet that the only reason Trip left was to cool off.  But Jonathan hadn't seen everything that came before:  only saw Trip pulling back for the punch.

            "Bullshit.  Now, I don't think he was going to hit you unless you gave him a damn good reason to do it.  And I don't want to know what that reason is, just in case it's one that's going to make me want to deck you too.  Now every single one of you had an opportunity to do or say something that could've stopped this.  I heard your entire conversation, guys.  Maybe not the words, but enough to know you were all laughing at the same joke."

            Malcolm blinked.  Was Jonathan taking Trip's side?  What had they talked about during that closed-door session?  Or was it the headache that made Jonathan feel sorry for Trip?

            "It was just a joke…"

            "Well, I'd say someone didn't find it funny.  You guys are supposed to be here to learn how to get along with each other, not to start World War Four.  You can't learn to do that…"

            Dutretre sneered.  "What makes him so special?"  He gestured towards the open door.

            "He," Jonathan spoke slowly and clearly, like someone not wishing to be misunderstood in any way, "is not special.  Except for the fact that _he_ at least has the guts to own up to what he does.  That's one thing, Mister…  I may have had my trouble with him, but I've never once heard him come up with an excuse.  I've never heard _him_ blame someone else for things he's done."

            _And _he_ wasn't trying to save himself_.  As near as Malcolm could tell, Trip never did.  He took a lot of abuse from other people and never flinched, but when it became directed at Malcolm… _he knows how to be a friend_.

            "Now, the rest of you, _stay here_."  Jonathan looked over at Malcolm as though confirming that he too was part of the order.  "And if I even _suspect_ that anybody here has said _anything_ out of line while I'm gone… you think I've been nasty with Tucker… you haven't seen anything yet."  He gave them all a final glare before heading out after Trip.

            Malcolm watched as the other boys settled back into their circle, occasionally throwing glances at the door.  They didn't say anything, however.  But he recognised the look.  _Oh, God._

# # # #

_            Fucking bastards._  Trip finally slowed his pace when he'd reached the woods.  The rain was no lighter in here, but at least there was something to sit on.  He'd be damned if he was going back in there, with those assholes.  He'd wanted to smack Dutretre so badly; wanted to knock those words right out of the guy's mouth.  _Malcolm's got enough bully trouble as it is.  The least you guys could do is treat him like a human being._  Okay, so the kid was small and not so tough.  He was also only ten… he'd grow.  And he was the only _smart_ person Trip had met who didn't treat Trip like an idiot just because he was an athlete and amateur mechanic.  _The jocks think I'm a geek, and the geeks treat me like a dumb jock_.  Malcolm though… he'd actually seemed to recognise that both things could come in one package.  _He didn't try to slot me into a category_.  So… _of course I'm going to look after him.  He's like a little brother_.  A _smart_ little brother who had no trouble keeping up with a plan.

            Trip pulled his sneakers up on the log until he sat in his favourite thinking position:  chin on his knees, one arm behind his legs and one over top, each hand grasping the opposite elbow.  Yeah, it looked uncomfortable, but it wasn't.  People left him alone when he was like this.

            "Hey."  Well, most people.  Some needed training.  "Why don't you come back inside?  You'll catch your death out here."

            _You can't catch anything by getting wet_.  You caught things by crowding around inside with sick people.  Besides, he liked getting wet.  _I'm a swimmer, remember?_

            "Hey.  You can't stay out here, like this.  Now come back.  Come inside."

            Trip said nothing, just pulled tighter into his huddle and turned his face away from Jonathan.  He felt a hand land on his shoulder and waited for the inevitable.

            "They're in trouble too.  I know they said something, and I know you were probably just standing up for your friend.  That takes guts.  But the only person you're hurting if you stay out here is yourself."

            _Well, who else _am_ I allowed to hurt?_  He wished Jonathan would go away and leave him alone.  It was better when the counsellor fought with him.  Then, at least he knew where he stood.  He stared straight ahead, thankful that the rain running down his face hid his tears.  _I'm crying 'cause I'm mad.  I'm so fucking mad that all I want to do is pound that guy's head into the dirt until it's nothing but broken bone and brains all over the place.  I'm crying because he's an asshole and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it.  But there's no way in _hell_ you're going to know that, buddy._

            Jonathan sighed.  "I'm not going to force you to come back, Trip.  You do that when you're ready.  But think about what I just said to you.  I'll see you later."  Trip heard the twigs snap as Jonathan walked away.  Only then did he bury his face on his knees and let the sobs come.  If having friends bought this much trouble… then what was the fucking point?

# # # #

            _Aw, kid_.  Jonathan turned around when he heard the sobs behind him and saw Tucker with his head on his knees, his shoulders shaking.  Most kids were the other way around:  cry when you yell at them -- feel better when you comfort.  But Trip… Jonathan could practically see the world bowing the boy's shoulders.  It was the first time he'd seen Trip acting even close to his age.  Even with the migraine, he'd been more like an adult:  suffering through it with barely a word.  This, however…  Jonathan wanted to head back over and give him a hug.  Let him know that it would be okay.  But he knew Trip would never believe that:  okay wasn't a word in Trip's lexicon.

            _If one of those kids even says _one_ word to him…_  Jonathan chewed on his lip to keep from thinking what he'd do.  He felt like crying himself.  _I actually get _through_ to the kid, on some level, and then this happens.  I take down his shields just so someone can break his heart._  No wonder Trip pushed people away, if this was his experience…  Turning again, he trudged up to the cabin, knowing there was nothing he could do out here except stand and get wet.

            Inside, he caught sight of Malcolm who stared back at him.  Wordlessly he shook his head and Malcolm slipped off his bunk and headed outside.

            _Good luck with that, pal_.  Maybe Malcolm could get through to Trip.  He'd managed it once… maybe he could do it again.  _I certainly hope so_.

# # # #

            _Will you just go _away?  Trip heard another set of steps behind him and pretended he couldn't.  You'd think Jonathan would figure out by now…

            "I thought you might be cold."  Malcolm climbed onto the log beside him and held out a thermos bottle.   "It's hot chocolate.  I got it from the mess hall.   They were getting ready for the movie night, so they never saw me."

            Trip turned wide eyes on his friend.  "You stole this?"  He took a sip.  It was a little weak, and would have been better with coffee in it, but it was still good.

            "Well, it's not really stealing.  I mean it was going to be for the campers anyway…"

            Trip nodded.  "Nice work.  Thanks."  He took another sip and offered the thermos to Malcolm.

            Malcolm took it hesitantly, then drank some.  "This is the first time I've ever stolen anything."

            Trip gave him a weak smile.  "Tastes better this way, doesn't it?  Makes you feel like you did something to earn it.  Look.  I'm sorry I lost it back there… he's just such a fucking _asshole_."

            "He is a jerk, yes."

            Trip snorted.  "You can say it, you know.  I mean, you've already stolen something, you might as well learn how to swear."  He reached over and lifted the thermos from Malcolm's hands and took another swig.  It felt good, warming him from the inside out.  The fact that Malcolm had actually stolen it made it that much better.

            "I just never have.  I…I know the words, I just don't use them."  Malcolm studied his feet like they'd suddenly become interesting.

            "Shit.  What'd you go learning them for if you weren't going to _use_ them?  Fuck, you think anybody really _cares_?  And believe me, 'fucking asshole' is a _way_ more accurate description of Dutretre than 'jerk'.  It's like I said to him:  I don't give a fuck what his prejudices are, because I'm not into crap like that.  What I _do_ hate is guys who think it's cool to talk like that -- like they're so fucking perfect that their shit doesn't stink.  I'm a pain in the ass.  I _know_ that.  But I don't go picking on people smaller than me, or weaker than me, or when they're outnumbered.  I fucking hate bullies, and I fucking hate cowards."

            "I'm a coward."  Malcolm said it so softly that Trip could barely hear.

            "_You_ are not a coward.  You think a coward would've gone and got this?"  He waved the thermos in front of Malcolm's face.  "You think a coward would've bothered to be friends with me in the first place?  Why the fuck do you think I make it so hard?  You are the first person who's ever had the guts to deal with me when I'm not Mr. Perfect.  You are the first person who had the guts to stick by me when you weren't going to get something out of it."

            "But I don't _do_ anything.  I…I let people like Jonesy beat me up, and people like Dutretre say things, and I don't do anything about it.  I don't even _say_ anything about it.  And… and I told Jonathan everything even though I told you I wouldn't… I was just so scared when he started asking questions…"

            _Son of a bitch.  Bastard lied to me_. Trip took another sip while he thought.  "Look.  He got me rattled too, so it's no big deal.  And…"  He tried to think of how to put it so Malcolm could understand.  "…and you were brought up different from me.  I mean… I bet if you talked back to your dad you'd get a major league spanking, right?"

            Malcolm shook his head.  "He'd simply confine me to my room for several days and not speak to me.  And give me a lecture on why that wasn't permissible.  My father doesn't believe in corporal punishment."

            "Well, mine does.  Maybe that's why I _do_ talk back.  Spanking goes away after a couple of minutes.  And they don't lock me in my room so much any more because I just go out the window.  I mean they _try_… but it's not like they can chain me to the bed or something.  Mostly they send me to bed without dinner or make me clean up the basement or the garage.  And they don't ignore me either, because they know I'm more likely to do an oil change or tune up my bicycle if they do.  I guess what I'm saying though… you've… you've never really had the back-up to stand up for yourself, have you?"

            "Huh?"

            Trip sighed.  Why was it always so hard for people to understand him?  "My parents have given me hell for talking back, sure.  But they've always encouraged me to stand up for what's right.  I know they'll always back me if I do, even if it means breaking the rules to do it."

            "My father would simply inform me that there are ways to do it that don't require breaking the rules."

            Trip shrugged.  "Whereas mine would say: 'you might want to think first, next time.' But he wouldn't tell me that I was wrong for doing it.  The only time I ever caught super-major-league-hell from them was when I was really little and I picked on this other kid."  He blushed, thinking about it.  "Both Mom and Dad went up one side of me and down the other.  Ever since then… I've always felt guilty when I've seen someone being bullied.  _And_ I'm bigger and stronger than you are.  It's not being a coward, it's being _smart_ that you don't try to take those guys on."

            "So it's smart just to let it keep happening?  Just to let them keep _doing_ stuff like that?"

            Trip ground his teeth.  Was Malcolm deliberately being dense?  "It's not your fault.  When there's nothing you can do… there's nothing you can do.  Look, we're planning to do things now, right?  Now that we can?"

            "But they're all your plans." Malcolm looked away from Trip, his lower lip trembling.

            "So?  That's just because you haven't got the same level of experience as me.  That's not your fault either.  Malcolm.  You are honestly one of the bravest people I have ever met.  Like I said… do you see anybody else out here?  They're all so scared of me, or scared that they'll get in trouble and have to do a little work detail that even if they _did_ feel sorry for me, they wouldn't be here."  He reached over and gave Malcolm a shake.  "You're not only here, but you risked getting me something to drink.  You jumped in with both feet to get work detail with me… hell, you even _blackmailed_ me, kid.  _Me_.  _I_'m not even crazy enough to do that."

            Malcolm gave him an odd look.  "You know, that last statement of yours made absolutely no sense."

            Trip started to laugh and found he couldn't stop.  He flung one arm over Malcolm's shoulders then pulled him into a headlock.  "Yeah, well you're the one who decided to hang out with me.  I'd say you're the one with no sense."  He released Malcolm as quickly as he'd grabbed him and gave him a grin.  "Come on.  You said it was movie night, right?"

            Malcolm nodded.  "But Jonathan said we can't go."

            Trip wrinkled his nose.  "Right now, I don't really care what Jonathan said.  And I don't think we'd want to watch their movie anyway.  Probably something about a little lost dog or something.  We're not that far from town, though.  Only a couple of miles.  I _know_ I saw a theatre there, and they've got to be showing something halfway decent.  Are you with me?"

            Malcolm smiled and nodded again.  Trip held out his palm and Malcolm slapped his hand down in to it.

            "All right.  Butch and Sundance ride again."

            "Who?"

            "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  What kind of movies do you watch anyway?"  They continued to argue as they traipsed through the woods.  It felt _good_ to be doing things again.  _Butch and Sundance_.


	7. Playing Ball

Disclaimer: These are not my characters; I simply hijacked them. But since I'm not making any money off of this….

Author's note: Thank you to my beta readers, gaianarchy and silvershadowfire… **well, I should hope so, moron, seeing as you forgot them last time**… "oh, hush", and thank you everyone who has taken the time to read and review. I really appreciate all of your efforts.

_ Dad, I am sorry for every time I put you through this._ Jonathan waited silently, listening to the soft steady breathing and gentle snores of sleeping campers. He looked at his watch: the luminescent display showed it to be well after 11:00. Worry fought with anger for control of his thoughts.

"Shh," A whispered voice and a giggle from outside made him straighten up. _Finally_.

"You'll wake up Cranky. Now come on. Be quiet."

_Too late, hotshot_. He took up a position by the door where he wouldn't be seen.

"I just still can't believe you did that." Malcolm's voice carried a tone of both awe and horror.

"The card and the signature both say Charles Tucker. I'm Charles Tucker. What's the problem?" Another round of muffled giggles drifted up. "Besides, if they're going to ship me off to the middle of nowhere, they can at least provide me with a little something to cover expenses."

_Credit fraud?_ Would this kid stop at nothing?

"They'll just take it back out of my allowance anyway. And probably hit me with a bunch of extra chores." Tucker didn't seem to be all that concerned about the ramifications of his actions.

The voices silenced and barely audible feet crept up the stairs. It was good sneaking, because it didn't sound like they were sneaking. The door eased silently open…

Jonathan dropped a hand on each boy's shoulder and felt a pair of jolts as both of them jumped. Quickly and quietly, he herded them into the back room and closed the door before turning on the light.

"And just where have you two been?" He let them go then stepped forward and turned so he could face them.

Tucker's face shut down and, beside him, Malcolm trembled.

"I'm waiting for an answer." Jonathan kept his gaze fixed on Tucker's. Neither one blinked for a minute.

"Well?"

Tucker shrugged. "Out."

Jonathan gritted his teeth, fighting down an urge to smack the kid. "Malcolm, I want you to go to bed."

"Sir?"

"Go to bed, Malcolm." He knew that – while Malcolm might crack under individual questioning – there was no way the boy would help him here. _It would mean losing face in front of your hero_. And if anything positive was to come of this, Jonathan had to let Malcolm keep his emerging self-esteem. "I'll deal with you in the morning."

Malcolm didn't move until Tucker glanced his way and nodded. Only then did he slip back into the main cabin.

"I sent him out of here, hotshot, because I hate to see a kid in that much pain. He's a good kid… why are you trying to turn him into a bad one?"

"What's good gotten him?" Without his audience, Tucker turned talkative. "Beat up? Teased? At least with _me_ he's having fun."

"Well, where the hell were you having fun? And don't tell me 'out' because, I swear to God, it'll be the last thing you say for a while."

"We went to the movies." Tucker crossed his arms over his chest, an obvious defensive move.

"Nice try, hotshot, but I checked there. And didn't Malcolm tell you I cancelled that?" Jonathan sat down on the bed to put himself more on eye level with Tucker.

"I never said we went to those movies." This time he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Jonathan could see the kid was tired – worn out. Yet he wouldn't drop.

_Stubborn little bastard_. "And what other movies might you have gone to? We're more than a couple of kilometres from town, you know."

Tucker shrugged, a gesture that told Jonathan everything he needed to know.

"Have you any idea how stupid that is? _Especially_ in this kind of weather. Anything could have happened to you out there… you could have been hit by a car… you could have been attacked… you could have gotten hurt… What the hell were you thinking?"

Tucker shrugged again.

"I know. You weren't thinking, were you? Malcolm is ten years old. It's irresponsible enough for you to take off on your own… but taking him with you crosses the line into sheer recklessness." He caught the flicker of panic that crossed Tucker's face: just a brief paling of the complexion, but enough to show Jonathan he'd hit home. And now that he had that guilt exposed…

"Have you any idea how worried I've been? It's almost midnight. Lights Out was two hours ago. They lock this camp down at night… what if you hadn't been able to get back in?"

"Why?" Something glittered in Tucker's eyes and it wasn't pretty.

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you care?" That something moved into the kid's voice, made it brittle.

Jonathan nearly snapped back an answer, but caught himself just in time. _He's serious_. Tucker really couldn't understand. But it was more than that… something in the tone made the question more specific: Why do _you_ care about _me_? And not in the normal sarcastic way that most kids put that question – no, Tucker really wanted to know _why_?

_Holy shit_. Just when he thought he had a handle on this kid, something else popped up. And here he'd thought that Malcolm was the one with the self-esteem problems. The easy answer would be: _I'm responsible for you, jackass, that's why I'm worried_ – but somehow the easy answer struck him as entirely wrong in this case. What the right answer was… he'd have to think about that. He could see Tucker waiting for an answer… and also noted the lack of expression when Jonathan didn't give him one.

"I asked you earlier today what I was going to do with you. You didn't seem to have any suggestions, so I guess I'm on my own with this. As you've probably guessed, there's a fair number of sports in this camp. One of the highlights of the year is the intra-camp baseball tournament…"

Tucker radiated hostility at the mention of baseball. _Good_. Jonathan had been counting on that when he'd come up with this plan. "…since you seem to be interested more in _avoiding_ camp activities than participating in them… I'm not letting you out of this one. You _will_ participate. You _will_ play. Am I clear?"

"Yes." Oh, he'd struck a nerve; he could see that now. What that nerve was he couldn't be sure, but the sheer unsuppressed loathing in the tone was unmistakable. He also saw that he'd slipped far more than a notch in the kid's estimation: that loathing wasn't directed at baseball, it was directed at Jonathan himself. _Fuck_. Dealing with this kid was like moving old dynamite: you didn't know which jolt would trigger an explosion. _I don't want him to _hate_ me._

_Why do you care?_ It suddenly struck him, harder than when Tucker had struck him earlier. He'd walked right into the trap: Tucker had been looking for Jonathan's ulterior motive, and unwittingly Jonathan had handed one to him. _You think what I want you for is to win this tourney, don't you? You honestly believe that's the only reason I give a damn._ No wonder this kid had problems… if that's how he saw life.

_Kid…_ Just when he thought he had it under control Tucker had to go and break his heart again. How could he stay mad, when all he could see was hurt? Jonathan's head dropped in surrender, and Tucker took it as permission to go.

"In answer to your question…" Tucker paused at the door as Jonathan spoke, half-turned back to face him. "I don't know. You've certainly given me enough reasons not to, but I do."

Tucker left, shaking his head.

# # # #

_What the hell does he mean, he 'doesn't know?' _Everybody_ knows._ Maybe it did go deeper than baseball, but somehow Trip doubted it. He'd seen it all too often: the 'I care about you' speech when all they cared about was his fastball or his passing ability. If he had less talent, he wouldn't be able to get away with half of the things he did.

_If I couldn't provide something you really want, you'd write me off without a second thought._ Not just Jonathan either: everybody outside his family was like that (Malcolm qualified under 'adopted' now) – just look at how they treated him in the off-season. It was like he didn't exist with the uniform off, or he was just another piece of shit.

_We'll see how much you mean it, pal._ Trip rolled over so he could stare at Jonathan's door. _We'll see how much you still mean it when I don't deliver._

He didn't sleep – too tired, too edgy and too depressed. All the better anyway: it looked that much more real when Jonathan came out to order them to breakfast.

"I feel sick." He wrapped his sleeping bag more tightly around him and turned his face to the wall.

"Okay." Jonathan leaned against Trip's bunk and watched the others get ready. He spoke softly, so only Trip could hear him.

"Another headache?"

Trip nodded, gently.

"Might help if you actually got some sleep. Instead of running around all night in rainstorms."

Trip said nothing, just closed his eyes. This was going to be easier than he thought.

"I'll just get them settled in at breakfast, then I'll come back and take you up for the nurse to have a look at you."

Trip's eyes flew open, and he looked over at Jonathan with a mixture of shock and resignation.

"What? You think I was born yesterday, hotshot? If you're really sick, then I haven't got a problem with that. But if you think you can play games with me… the only game you're going to be playing is baseball. Do we understand each other, hotshot?" Jonathan leaned in until he was almost nose to nose with Trip.

_Perfectly_. Yeah, this was another Coach, all right. _All I am is a right arm_.

Jonathan stared down at him, as though trying to look straight into Trip's brain. "This isn't my doing, hotshot. I'm not the one who decided to break every rule I could think of for a couple of hours with some popcorn. If I thought you were like anybody else, I'd punish you like anybody else." He dropped his voice further, so Trip had to pay close attention to catch the words. "Frankly, I don't give a fuck if we win or lose this thing. But you _will_ play. Because I want you to come to a clear understanding that Life does not always work the way you want it to."

Trip kept his face steady, but inside surprise surfaced at Jonathan's change in tone. _He actually swore at me._ Not really _at_ him, either, like most people did… _he just talked like me, for a second_. Most adults (or quasi-adults in this case) did everything to _avoid_ talking like that to a kid. "I already know that, asshole."

Jonathan's lip's twitched like he was either trying not to grin or trying not to grimace. "Well, you could've fooled me. Seems like up 'till now, you've made out pretty good for yourself. You've just ignored the rules you don't like and – while I wouldn't say you've expected to get away with it – you've never had much in the way of consequences for it. That changes now. Right now I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. You've been making too big a habit of taking advantage of me every time I've given you a break. You tell me you love your _mother_ and I'm going to check with at least three independent sources. Got it?"

Trip nodded. _What have you been doing? Taking lessons from her?_ This held echoes of the time she'd taken to showing up every place he said he'd be, just to make sure he was. Sighing, he began to crawl out of his sleeping bag. _Looks like I'll just have to adapt_.

# # # #

_It's a good thing I don't care about winning_. Jonathan watched dismally as his team fumbled their way through their first practice. Even if Tucker was half as good as people said… one player couldn't resolve this mess. Aside from Tucker, only Lemaitre and Hong had any experience with the game – nothing new, every team every year had it's share of newbies – and they were hardly major league material.

As for Tucker… so far he'd spent his time warming up and studying the other players.

"You're supposed to play, hotshot," Jonathan reminded him.

Tucker didn't say anything, just kept watching his teammates. After a couple more minutes, he wandered over to where Jonathan had left the pad with the roster on it.

"Excuse me, hotshot," Jonathan joined him and lifted the pad out of Tucker's hands. "You're the player, _I'm_ the coach." He looked down at the changes Tucker had made. "I'm glad to see you approve at least _one_ of my picks."

"You can't put Malcolm in the outfield." Tucker kept his eyes on the others, sounding almost distracted. "He's got a lousy arm; he'd never get it back in. Kip's got good speed, he's way better for shortstop. You seem semi-competent, which is why I slotted you in at first. And I won't have number-one-asshole behind the plate. I need someone I can trust, not someone who'll fuck me up."

Jonathan stared at him, but said nothing. _He's right_. Admittedly he'd hoped to get Dutretre and Tucker to work together… that's why he'd given Dutretre the catcher's job, but he could understand why Tucker would be reluctant. _He may not _want_ to do this, but he's not going to do a half-assed job, either._ Still… "Semi-competent?"

"You can catch if it's thrown to you, and I haven't seen any major wobbles with your tosses. You've got to start using your reach more, though. Remember: one foot on the base and it's an automatic out." Tucker still didn't look at him, and still sounded merely bored with the whole thing.

"So, Malcolm behind the plate." Jonathan decided to ignore the rest of the insult, most of which was to his intelligence.

"It doesn't matter if the ball bounces on its way back to me. He's patient, which I need, and he's got the brains to get the signals down. Stick Dickhead out in left field where he's less likely to do damage."

"You know, he does have a name." Jonathan saved the corrections and handed the pad back to Tucker.

"Yeah, but I don't want to insult his relatives by using it. I'll give you the batting order later, when I've had a chance to see how they can hit." Tucker trotted out to the mound and took up a position. "Any time you're ready."

"Hey. How come he gets to be pitcher?" Dutretre came over to Jonathan – the look on his face could only be described as a pout. "I thought we were supposed to be trying out."

Jonathan glanced over at Tucker who shrugged and came back.

"If he wants the job…" Tucker flipped the ball up into the air and let Dutretre catch it.

"No. He is right, you'll try out for it." Jonathan had no doubts who would come out on top with this one. _And maybe it'll end the argument_. At least the one over who was best qualified to pitch. He wasn't surprised that Dutretre made a play for the job: the pitcher was often seen to be the team leader and strategist. _And you can't stand the thought of Tucker being in charge, can you?_ "Each of you will get three pitches. The other will catch."

Tucker nodded. "Batter?"

"No. Not just yet. Are we agreed?" It was as fair as he could get in the matter, and he could see Dutretre knew it. Besides, that kid was cocky enough to think he could win – even though Tucker had all the experience.

Tucker headed off to the plate, willing to let Dutretre go first.

The Dutch kid wasn't bad, but he wasn't great either. One of his pitches nearly fell short and Tucker had to move a bit to catch one of the others.

Dutretre sneered as the two boys traded places, but Tucker didn't blink. He merely handed over the catcher's gear and strolled out to the mound.

_And now it gets interesting._ Jonathan watched as Tucker scuffed his feet in the dirt, settling into position.

_Thwack_. The ball buried itself in Dutretre's glove. Dutretre straightened up and shook his hand. "Ow." He shot a hurt look at Jonathan then a glare at Trip before throwing the ball back to the mound.

This time the ball came in a little slower and seemed to drop as it crossed the plate.

_Kid's got a slider. A good one too._ Jonathan nodded in approval. The others had gathered around to watch, and he could tell from their faces that they wouldn't argue much when he made his announcement.

_Thwack_. The third flew in faster than the first. _He _started_ with the change-up_. Not a normal way of doing things… but it would still throw off a batter's timing. This time Dutretre actually yelped as the ball made contact.

"I think we can agree – Tucker pitches." Jonathan stepped forward and retrieved the ball from where Dutretre dropped it. "Okay, now it's batting practice… line up over there… go easy on them, Tucker. We want to see what they can hit like… we already know you can pitch."

Tucker nodded, then settled again into position. _Businesslike_, Jonathan realised, _he's acting like a pro_. Still, they only had twenty minutes left on the diamond before the next cabin took it over. He found himself not wanting to give too much away, not wanting to let them know just what he had here. _Maybe we _can_ win._

Tucker _did_ go surprisingly easy on the others at first, even Dutretre. The only problem came when Jonathan went to the mound to relieve him.

"Your turn. I'll pitch."

Tucker shook his head. "No need."

"Yes, need, hotshot. You proved you could pitch; now prove you can hit."

Tucker shook his head again. "No need. I got Pitcher's Syndrome."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. " 'Pitcher's Syndrome?' What the hell is that?"

Tucker shrugged. "I can't hit. Why do you think they came up with the DH rule in the first place?"

_Holy shit. Is the hotshot admitting there's something he can't do?_ Jonathan blinked, then shrugged as well. "Okay, then. We don't have a designated hitter around here, but if you're that sure…" He wouldn't gain anything by humiliating Tucker, and it _would_ be humiliating for him to strike out so soon after burning Dutretre. _And Dutretre asked for it_. Unlike Tucker, he _hadn't_ been willing to admit there was something he couldn't do.

"I am, which is why sticking me fourth in the batting order was stupid. You need someone who can put it away if you get the bases loaded. Your turn."

"My turn?" Jonathan couldn't help feeling slightly amused.

"We need nine for the team, and you _are_ playing, hotshot. Let's see if you can hit." Except for the accent, Tucker's inflections and tone sounded remarkably like Jonathan's own.

_Snotty little brat_. Rather than argue, he strolled off to the plate.

_Thwack_. The first strike burned past him so fast he didn't even see it. So that was how the hotshot was going to play it, huh? _Go easy on _them. _You think I would've learned by now_. He settled in for the next one.

This time it was the slider. He barely caught a piece of it, causing it to fly up and foul. He pointed the bat at Tucker and shook his head. Tucker merely shrugged.

_Two strikes_. Okay, he could still do this. _I'm nineteen years old. No way I'm getting my pants beat off by some damned little leaguer._ Pride was at stake here; he had to get control back.

The third came in a little slower and wobbling like crazy. Even as he swung, Jonathan knew he had no hope in hell of connecting. _A knuckleball? The kid throws me a _knuckleball_?_ That was just downright cruel. Most major-leaguers couldn't throw a knuckler… and here was Tucker tossing it out like it was nothing. _You perverse little bastard_. He could tell Tucker knew it too: a hint of smugness had crept onto those delicate features. "Okay, hotshot. You've proved your point."

Tucker just looked at him, his entire body saying 'Who me?'__

Jonathan just shook his head in mock disgust and shooed them off the field as the next cabin showed up. _Little shit_.

# # # #

"I thought Jonathan put me in the outfield. How come I'm now," Malcolm hesitated over the unfamiliar term, "batcatcher?"

Trip sighed. "Because I need someone I can work with there. And there's no way with your arm you can play outfield. It's going to be a lot easier to toughen your hand up than build up your toss. Meantime, we can work out some signals and strategy." He lifted up a pair of binoculars and stared out at the field. "Doesn't look like these guys are going to be too much of a problem… especially if they keep that guy on the mound. He doesn't even have a fastball."

Malcolm squirmed, trying – and failing – to not seem nervous. "Are we supposed to be doing this? Jonathan said we were to get ready to go to Arts and Crafts… everybody else is swimming." He _knew_ Jonathan wouldn't class sitting on the cabin roof as 'getting ready for Arts and Crafts'.

"It's just a little bit of pre-tournament scouting. How does he expect me to form any kind of strategy if I don't know what I'm up against?" Trip put down the binoculars and made a couple of notes on his pad. "Now will you stop bugging me? I'm afraid of heights."

_Then why are we sitting on the roof?_ Malcolm knew now not to ask the question. Trip Tucker and common sense were like matter and anti-matter: put them together and there was bound to be an annihilation. _It's like he forgets to be scared if there's something else he really wants to do_. Malcolm wished he had that talent. _Then maybe I wouldn't get beat up so much_.

Except… Trip didn't seem to have a lot of friends either. And people _did_ pick on him, more people – it seemed – than picked on Malcolm. If some of the things Trip had told him were true… then even the adults in his life tried to push him around. _He just deals with it differently. I get scared, and he gets angry._ And because Trip was bigger and more aggressive, it just meant that other people became scared of him, and became all the nastier for it. They didn't seem to realise that underneath it all was a frightened, lonely kid.

Another thought occurred to him. Trip belonged to so many different teams and groups that everybody figured he had _lots_ of friends. The problem was that each group figured he more closely resembled one of the other groups. The kids he'd come in with – 'the chess geeks' Trip referred to them as – had talked about him like he was stupid because he was an athlete. And Trip himself had said that the other athletes didn't like him for being so smart. _No wonder he's got problems_.

"This doesn't look like Arts and Crafts." A hand clamped down on Malcolm's shoulder and an all too familiar voice spoke in his ear. Somehow Jonathan had managed to sneak up on the roof without either of them hearing.

"Oh, shit."

Jonathan's fingers dug into Trip's shoulder as Trip wobbled and threatened to fall. Trip's eyes clamped shut. "Don't _do_ that to me, asshole."

_That was close_. So Trip really was afraid of heights. He'd gone pale and was breathing heavily, like he'd been running.

Jonathan moved in between them and shifted his grip so one long arm draped around each of them. "So… what kind of interesting things have we found out?" He lifted the binoculars that still hung around Trip's neck and scanned the grounds. "Ah… a little intelligence gathering, I see. Very good use of initiative, though I distinctly remember telling you to do something else."

Trip muttered something that Malcolm couldn't hear, but Jonathan laughed. "Nice try, hotshot, but if you're not going swimming, you're definitely spending your time in Arts and Crafts. _Camp_ activities, remember? And I thought I told you I don't care that much about the tourney."

"Yeah, well, if you're going to make me play, I'm not going to sit around hamstrung either." Trip still hadn't opened his eyes.

"Like I said, hotshot. _I_ didn't make this happen. _You_ were the one who made it necessary, not me." Jonathan pulled Trip into a headlock as though to emphasise his point. "So you can get your ass down to the ground and up to the Arts and Crafts cabin." He turned his head to look at Malcolm. "You too, buddy. I'm not doing this for _my_ health, you know."

"Yes, sir." Malcolm waited for Jonathan to release Trip, then gently guided Trip across the roof until they were over Jonathan's window. From there, all they had to do was swing onto the windowsill and drop down onto Jonathan's bed. Trip managed it slowly, but made it. Jonathan simply hung by his fingers off the edge off the roof and dropped to the ground. He then leaned in the open window. "Oh, and you might want to run my stuff up to the laundry, now that you've had your dirty feet all over it."

_He's laughing at us,_ Malcolm realised. He could tell that Trip knew it too, from the look of disgust on his friend's face. That obviously hadn't been the reaction Trip had been looking for. Yet… something else lurked behind that disgust: an almost grudging admiration of an opponent. _Oh dear_. Malcolm wasn't sure what would happen if Trip decided to raise the stakes. _This could get messy_.

# # # #

_Little shit_. Jonathan followed them up to the Arts and Crafts cabin – making sure they did drop off his bedclothes at the laundry first – and advised the counsellor on duty to keep a close eye on them.

"Turn your back for even a second and Tucker will be gone. Either that, or he'll be messing with the power tools. Now the last thing I want to do is explain to his parents why he's missing a couple of fingers…"

"Jon, I get it. He's an active kid."

"No, Jay, he's an impossible shit." Jonathan said it loudly enough for Tucker to hear. Tucker gave him the finger.

"I see you two communicate well." Jay grinned.

Jonathan laughed. "Don't let his sweet face fool you. _That_ is not a kid. A foul mouthed baby-demon from Hell, maybe, but it's not a kid."

"So far you're the only one I've heard swearing." At this, Tucker had to turn his head away to hide something. A grin, perhaps?

"Stick around him for five minutes. I swear Malcolm here must have doubled his vocabulary just by listening."

"Relax, Jon. I'll take care of them. You go wrangle the rest of your monsters. We'll be fine."

Jonathan gave him a look that clearly said _I'm not convinced_.

"Jon. We get trouble kids every year, and they're never as bad as everybody says."

"This is not a trouble kid. I just pulled these two off the roof. He got Work Detail his first night here. He doubled it on the second. I've stopped giving it to him because he enjoys it too much. He's pulled so many B and E's I've lost count…

"Can't prove it," Tucker muttered.

"… and I swear, his entire mission in life is to keep me from sleeping. Hell, he even tried to poison me. No… trouble doesn't even begin to describe it."

The Arts and Crafts counsellor crouched down so he could be on eye level with Tucker. "You're not that bad, are you?"

Tucker shook his head, his face the epitome of innocence. Jonathan just about choked.

"And I'll bet you enjoy making and building things."

Tucker nodded vigorously, exuding wide-eyed excitement.

Jay looked up. "See Jon? We won't have any problems here. You've just got to tap into a kid's interests, that's all." He ruffled Tucker's hair, and to Jonathan's shock and disgust, didn't lose his hand. "It's always the creative types you guys have problems with. We'll do fine."

Jonathan bent down until his mouth was level with Tucker's ear. "Mess around, and I swear I will make you the most miserable camper in existence." He spoke barely above a whisper. "Comprendez, amigo?"

Tucker shot back something in rapid fire Spanish, too quick for Jonathan to comprehend. He assumed it wasn't polite.

"Watch your language, kid. It's not nice to talk to people like that."

The look Tucker gave him said it all: _You didn't understand a word I said, did you?_

In response, Jonathan flicked his finger into the top of Tucker's head. "Behave yourself. I mean it, hotshot." Reluctantly, he backed away. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he had six other campers to worry about. _Dad's right… you do get my full attention_. Then again, maybe Tucker needed it. With some kids, you just couldn't tell.

# # # #

_And the prize goes to…_ Trip settled down on the bench and pretended to be interested as Jay told them about all the neat things they could make. Like tie racks for their dads… _Puh-leeze, like I'd make him something_… or a nice picture frame… _if I'd suffered major brain damage, maybe…_ or how about a birdhouse?

"Sure." He said it as chipperly as he could. This seemed to impress Jay who bustled off to the corner to get them the materials.

"Okay, now here's the plan." Trip leaned over to Malcolm and kept his voice low. "I'm not building any Popsicle stick birdhouse. Nor am I staying in this shack all day. Tell genius there you have to go to the bathroom. Jonathan didn't say anything about _you_, so he's not going to suspect a thing. And then when you go to leave, pretend to fall or something, and really start crying. Make sure you have his attention… and I'll head out the window. Then, when he's looking for me, you can beat it out the door and meet me… meet me at the log where we had hot-chocolate, okay?"

"What if he doesn't let me go? What if he sees you're gone and makes me stay with him?" Malcolm sounded panicked at the possibility of being left behind to take all the heat.

_Poor kid, I bet that happens to him a lot_. Trip made sure that Jay was still busy over in the corner before he continued. "If you're not down there within ten minutes I'll come back, and I'll say I made you do it. They'll believe that, especially Jonathan."

Malcolm still looked unsure. "You swear?"

Trip grinned. "All the time." He then sobered and grasped Malcolm's arm. "I _promise_. That's better than a swear. Ten minutes, then I come back." He let go as Jay turned around and pretended to be interested in the counsellor's instructions when it came to the use of nails and glue. It wasn't as interesting as his father's (_nails go in the drawer, not up your brother's nose. And glue is not used to hang your sister's doll from the ceiling_, _nor is it meant to be used in place of hair gel, and if you keep making those faces at me, you are never going to see the outside of your room again)_, but then again, Jay was an idiot. Had he thought Jonathan had been exaggerating? Didn't this guy listen to camp gossip? _Nobody messes with the hair and gets away with it_. Well, maybe Melissa Lyles… but nobody else. He waited until Jay looked satisfied that they were engrossed in the project, and then nudged Malcolm with his foot.

"Excuse me, sir, but can I go to the washroom?" The look on Malcolm's face was pricelessly perfect. He looked like he was almost ready to cry.

"Of course," Jay flashed them a bright smile. "I'm not an ogre. Hurry back, we'll be here."

Trip smiled back so sweetly it could've caused sugar shock. The idiot took it as another sign that he was dealing with a normal kid.

On his way out the door, Malcolm stumbled, then sat down, clutching his knee. "Ow…"

It sounded fake, but worked well enough on Jay. "Oh, you poor guy. What happened?"

"I fell." Malcolm glanced over at Trip who had to fight down an urge to shake a fist at him.

_Don't draw attention to me. Focus on him._

"Are you okay? Let me see." Jay bent over Malcolm's knee, searching for any sign of injury. Trip slipped over to the window and jimmied it open before scrambling outside.

"Going somewhere, hotshot?" The voice behind him sounded amused.

"Fucking shit! I thought you were supposed to be babysitting." Trip turned, trying to get his heart to calm down. _How does he do that?_

Jonathan laughed. "I am. What do you think this is?" He looked at his watch. "Not bad. I expected you about five minutes ago, but Jay can get a little long winded." He dropped a hand onto Trip's shoulder in the manner of a cop arresting a felon. "Now, what do you say we go back and let him know that Malcolm's okay? Oh, and I'll take those off your hands." He reached down and snatched Trip's lock picks before Trip could react.

"Hey!" Trip tried to grab them back, and Jonathan held them out of his reach. He swore profusely.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Who do you think taught me the words? Now give those back, asshole." Trip squirmed, trying to break free.

"I don't think so. I wouldn't want to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You don't need any help on that score, hotshot. Besides, I always wanted a set of these." Jonathan closed his fist around the picks and let his arm fall back to his side.

"Fuckface." Unable to think of anything else, Trip fell back on insult. Those picks were custom built, the result of weeks worth of clandestine work in the school metal shop. He'd had to hack into several secure databases to get the specs on them: locksmiths didn't hand out their trade secrets to kids. And now all that time and effort lay clenched in Jonathan's fist, and the dickhead didn't even know what he had. _I hate you, I hate you, I _hate_ you, asshole._ Sure, he could make another set, but it wouldn't be the same. They'd just be _copies_, like some cheap knock-offs of a work of art. He could feel himself shaking with unsuppressed rage.

"I'm sorry to spoil your fun, hotshot." Jonathan didn't sound sorry at all, though he did seem upset when Trip didn't answer.

_I'm never fucking speaking to you again. I hate you more than I've ever hated anybody, because you are so fucking _stupid_. I hope you rot in hell_. This time… this time he really was getting out of here.


	8. The Dark Side

Disclaimer: The usual. Not my characters… not making any money off of this… just for entertainment.

A/N: Thanks to my beta readers as usual. I couldn't pull this off without you guys. And thank you again to my regular readers – you are a large portion of what keeps me so excited about this. (I mean… it's a story I'm interested in… but it's nice to see that other people are interested too).

Chapter 8 The Dark Side:

"I'm sorry it didn't work." Malcolm sat down beside Trip, eyeing Jay who now watched them diligently.

"You did fine." Trip was inconsolable. "It's not your fault."

_I don't hear that often_. Malcolm wondered what could have happened to send Trip into such a black mood. Surely not the simple instance of being caught by Jonathan. Something else must have happened out in back of the Arts and Crafts cabin -- something very bad.

"Asshole took my shims. I spent forever making those, and he grabbed them away like they were garbage. Probably _threw_ them in the garbage. I am _so_ out of this place now." Trip shook, and tears shone in his eyes, but wouldn't fall.

"You made those?" Malcolm was impressed. What he'd seen of them had been good workmanship, and they certainly got the job done.

"Took forever," Trip repeated. "I had to experiment with a ton of different designs, and had to get them just perfect. And you've got to use the right metals, too: if they're too soft they'll just bend, and if they're too stiff, you can't work them in the lock, and you might end up damaging the mechanism. They were mine and he took them away like they were nothing."

Malcolm said nothing. He knew why Jonathan took the lock picks away: not only were they letting Trip do whatever he wanted -- they were also illegal. At the same time he could understand why Trip was so upset. It was like when Jonesy had taken Malcolm's favourite book and thrown it in the toilet. It wasn't the things themselves; it was what they represented… and the memories they held. Now those memories would be tainted. He sighed. He wanted to help his friend, but had no idea how to go about it. _But I don't want you to leave._ Camp without Trip would not only be boring, it would be – at this point – downright dangerous.

_But if I tell Jonathan, I'll be betraying Trip. And I don't want him hating me, because he's the first real friend I've ever had. But if I _don't_ tell Jonathan and Trip runs away… even if he makes it home okay, he'll probably still be in serious trouble, and so will I._ Having friends certainly made life a lot more complicated than he'd thought it would. Then again, he'd never imagined having a friend like Trip. Until this summer he'd classified people who behaved like Trip as 'undesirable'. He remembered his first impression… and how wrong it had been. Sure, Trip didn't follow a lot of the rules, and he could definitely be rude… but he followed the _important_ rules, the unwritten ones that everyone else forgot about: like standing up for what was right, even if it wasn't popular; like defending the defenceless and like accepting the consequences of your actions. This was the first time he'd seen Trip truly upset over something that happened to him; the first time Trip had seemed indignant about a punishment. _And, even now, he doesn't deny that he deserves it; he's just mad that it happened. Anyone else would be saying it wasn't 'fair'._

He remembered what Trip had said to him on that first night, 'Fair is a sunny day.' Trip didn't believe in 'fair' because he had too much evidence to the contrary. _Like me_. Malcolm realised that despite all appearances, Trip was quite used to being on the losing side of things. And even when he won… _he knows it's because he had a natural advantage, like being smarter or being a better athlete. So even then he knows it wasn't 'fair'._

"I don't want you to leave." Malcolm didn't realise he'd spoken at first.

Trip's smile failed. "I know. And it sucks leaving you here, but what am I staying for? I could've told them before I showed up that I didn't get along with people, and I've got no interest in trying. Most people are just hypocrites anyway, and that is not how I intend to live my life. And there's only so much of this bullshit I can take before… I'm not going to make it. Either I leave now or…" He didn't finish the sentence.

Malcolm stared at his friend, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. Trip was serious about this. _I never realised it was so bad._ He'd never seen so much pain in one person in his entire life. _I've got to do something, fast_.

# # # #

"Come in." Jonathan looked up in surprise at the identity of his caller. "Malcolm."

"It's… it's Trip, sir. I'm worried about him."

Jonathan sat up and patted a space on the bed beside him. "Sit down, Malcolm." The look on Malcolm's face proved the reality of his words. _So you've finally realised he's not the hero you took him for_. "Now what's the problem?"

"I think… I think he was talking about killing himself."

"_What?!" _ That was not the answer Jonathan had expected. He jumped up and turned around to face Malcolm. "What makes you think that?" He tried to sound calm, but cold terror raced through him. A suicidal kid was no joke and he didn't think Malcolm would be here if the boy didn't seriously believe that Tucker meant it. "Did he say…"

"Not exactly, sir." Malcolm hung his head and tears streaked down his cheeks. "But he said some things… like he wasn't going to make it… like he had to leave now, or…" He looked up, suddenly. "You've got to do something, sir. You can't let him do this."

_Oh, hell_. Yeah, coming from Tucker words like that could definitely be taken as intent to die… Tucker didn't do anything by half-measures. "I have to call his parents…" He spoke more to himself than Malcolm, trying desperately to figure out what _to_ do.

"No, sir. You can't do that, it won't fix anything. He needs help _now_. _Right now_, while he's still thinking about it." Malcolm interrupted him, a rare thing from this ultra-polite child. What was worse was that the kid made sense.

_How did you get so wise on the subject?_ Jonathan nodded, unable to think of anything else to do. "What makes you think he'll listen to me?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know. But I think he will… I think he cares what you think of him. He was so mad that you took his lock-picks… they were important to him. He made them himself…"

Jonathan glanced over at his dresser at the confiscated picks. _No wonder he freaked out. If he put that much effort into something…_

"…and I think he thinks you don't like him. I think he thinks you lied to him about something."

_'Why do you care about me?' You really aren't used people doing that, are you? And by stopping the game…_ he realised now that Tucker _did_ conceive of their sparring as a challenge… _you think it means I'm not interested in you anymore_. Jonathan's stomach twisted as he realised the implications of that. "Where is he now?" The others were on free-time, but he'd insisted that Malcolm and Tucker stay in the Arts and Crafts cottage under supervision. However, if Malcolm was here…

"I snuck out. The counsellor was paying so close attention to Trip that he never saw me. You've got to _do_ something, sir. You can't…"

"Okay, okay. I'm going to go talk to him. I _should_ call his parents though… something like this is very serious. People don't go making threats like this if there's not something deeply wrong with them. A simple talking to from me isn't…"

"It might help for now, sir. And if his parents take him away… how is he ever going to know if you're one of the hypocrites or not?"

"Hypocrites?" An interesting comment coming from Tucker… but then again, maybe not.

"He said that most people were hypocrites, and I think I know what he means. I think he means that most people only care what you can do for them… and he's not like that. If he were like that… he wouldn't be my friend. I can't do anything that people are interested in… but he's my friend anyway. But if you send him away…" Malcolm dropped his gaze again and began crying harder.

_Damnit._ How many rules was he going to bend for this kid? _As many as I need to_. He couldn't help it… Tucker had too tight a grip on his heartstrings. _You had me at word one_. All that pent-up rage and obvious intelligence… Tucker was a special kid, all right. "Okay, let me talk to him first. Then I'll decide."

Malcolm nodded. "I hope he doesn't hate me for talking to you, but I had to do something."

_Great. Two of them_. "You did the right thing, Malcolm. You can't be expected to handle something like this. This is something most grown-ups have trouble with… you managed to see things here we've _all_ missed. He's lucky to have a friend like you. Most people wouldn't have bothered." He crouched down and took Malcolm by the shoulders. "You did the right thing… and even if he's mad at you, I think he'll understand that. I'll make _sure_ he understands that."

Malcolm nodded, looking relieved. "That's important to him. I know you don't think so… but it is."

Jonathan remembered how Tucker had been willing to tear into Dutretre over comments the boy had made. How he'd protected Malcolm from having to go swimming. _I guess you just have a different version of what's _right_._

"Okay. I'll keep that in mind. Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay here? I want to talk with him alone in any case…"

"I'll stay here. You do believe me, don't you? He really is…"

"I believe you, Malcolm. Which is why I'm going to do everything I can." He gave Malcolm a quick hug and stood up. "I'm… I'm going to do everything I can." He'd been about to say he'd take care of it -- that it would be okay, but he knew Malcolm was too smart to believe that. _This is not something that becomes okay_. "Just… can you do me a favour?"

Malcolm nodded.

"If the others show up before I'm back… tell them free time has been extended. Don't worry about telling them why… they probably won't argue anyway." He hoped they wouldn't argue… even if they did think Malcolm wasn't worth listening to. _I just don't think we'll need an audience when we come back._

He forced himself not to run up to the Arts and Crafts cabin. It wouldn't do him any good to show up panicky and out of breath. _I need to be as calm as possible if I'm going to have any hope of handling this_. He hoped Malcolm was overreacting, but didn't think it too likely. If Tucker had come to him instead… _but that's not too likely either, is it, hotshot?_ He paused at the door and took a deep breath before entering.

"Oh, Jon, thank God. I don't know where the other one is, but you told me this was the trouble kid…" Jay came running up like a man who'd just spotted a lifeline. "…so I didn't want to leave him…"

"It's okay, Jay. Just give us a couple of minutes, okay?" Jonathan looked past Jay and over at Tucker. The boy sat on the bench, all huddled up like he had out in the woods. _Not good_. He wouldn't make eye contact either, just stared down at the table. _Really not good._

He waited until Jay gratefully escaped, then closed the door and went to sit beside Tucker. "Hey. What's up?"

Tucker didn't speak to him -- didn't even move.

"You mad at me?" He leaned in to put himself in Tucker's line of sight and Tucker turned his head away.

"I know you're not happy, kiddo. I just want to know how bad it is." He leaned behind Tucker this time, to make himself visible again. Tucker buried his face on his knees.

"Because if it's as bad as it looks… nothing's worth that, kiddo." He saw a shudder run through Tucker's body, as though the kid was fighting with himself over something. _You want to say something, don't you? You want to say something, but you won't because it'll mean you have to break._ "Malcolm said that you were pretty upset. He thinks…" He took another deep breath. The only way to attack this was head on. "Trip… were you… are you thinking about killing yourself?"

Tucker's only response was to pull tighter into himself.

_I'll take that as a 'yes'_. No wonder people always said they never saw it coming. How many people would pick a bright, active kid like Tucker to be the depressive type? Yet… what had Dad said about twelve? 'Everything changes.' If Tucker was going through that on top of everything else…_ I can see how that can screw you up_. Just another area of life where he was ahead of his peers. _Poor kid_.

"Look, I don't care what else in your life is wrong…it's not worth that. There is _nothing_ that is worth that. _I_ am certainly not worth that. No way in hell."

Tucker muttered something, but it was lost in his knees.

"Believe me kiddo…"

"Why the fuck do you care?" This time Tucker screamed it -- pain and rage reverberating in every word. "Why the fuck do you care one way or another? It's not like I really matter…"

Jonathan swept him into a tight hug and didn't even try to stop his own tears. "Yes, you do, kiddo. I know you don't want to believe that…" He buried his own face in Tucker's hair and began rocking him back and forth. "…but you do matter. _You_ matter. Not your pitching… not your strategy…_you_, okay? And not just to me, but Malcolm is worried about you too. As for me… I've never spent this much time on one kid before. And it's not just because you've caused me so much trouble… if that was it I would've sent you home a long time ago. Believe it or not, this has been the most interesting year I've ever had. You are – by far – one of the most interesting people I've ever had a chance to meet. And I've met a few."

Tucker didn't answer, but Jonathan felt some of the tension in the boy's body draining away as he surrendered to his sobs. Then – miracle of miracles – Tucker's arms crept around Jonathan's torso. He turned his face to Jonathan's chest and cried harder… all his pent-up pain and anger seeming to unleash itself at once.

_Aw, kid_. Jonathan held him until the sobs slowed, then stopped completely. Only when Tucker's breathing finally levelled out did he relax his grip and look at the kid's face. His cheeks shone red and raw, and his closed eyes were swollen. Exhaustion had finally caught up, for he'd fallen asleep.

Carefully Jonathan shifted around until he could get up without letting go. He lifted Tucker from the bench and let the boy's head fall to his shoulder. _Don't wake up. You need your sleep._ He carried him down to the cabin, marvelling again at how heavy Tucker was. _So much packed into one little __kid_. He'd seen Escher drawings with less angles than Tucker.

Fortunately the cabin was empty when they got back, except for Malcolm who watched anxiously as Jonathan put Tucker in his bunk. Jonathan held a finger to his lips and Malcolm nodded. They moved quietly to the back room and Jonathan closed the door.

"I'll see how he is in the morning, and I'll decide then whether or not to call his parents, okay?" He spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb Tucker in any way.

Malcolm nodded. "Okay. Is he mad at me?"

"I don't think so, but we'll see how he feels when he wakes up." Jonathan sighed. "I forgot how tired he looked this morning… and with everything that went on today he was probably pretty worn out even before we started talking. He definitely needs to get some sleep." He sighed again. "I just hope I'm doing the right thing."

"If you sent him home, they'd send him to a doctor, right?"

Jonathan nodded. "Which might be the best thing."

"Except a doctor wouldn't know him, and Trip would probably just lie. And then the doctor wouldn't be able to help…" Once again Malcolm proved he was more perceptive than a ten year old should be.

"Are you _sure_ you're only ten? Maybe you should be the one with the medical degree."

Malcolm stared down at his shoes. _Why? _ "It's not that hard to figure out. All you have to do is listen when he talks to you."

Jonathan was about to say that he did, but stopped himself just in time. _No, you _hear_, but you don't always_ listen_. Half of what Tucker communicates is in what's_ not_ said._ Coming from a kid who didn't have anything nice to say about anybody… 'semi-competent' could be seen as high praise. Even outside the Arts and Crafts cabin, everything was going fine until he confiscated the picks. _Well, fine according to the rules of Tucker._ It was only after he teased Tucker with the picks that the trouble started. Something else Malcolm said came back. _He cares what you think about him_.

"Why _do_ you care?" Jonathan murmured. If Tucker could ask the question, then why couldn't he?

"Pardon?" Malcolm looked at Jonathan quizzically.

"Sorry. Just something he asked me." _That_ was something he might want to figure out in a hurry though. If Tucker didn't give a damn what other people thought, then why did he care what Jonathan thought about him? _What's so special about me?_ Dad said Trip had picked him out to be his big brother… _But I don't have any experience at that. I'm an only child. _As near as he could tell, there was nothing big-brotherish about him. He supposed he could ask Tucker how to do it… but somehow he didn't think that was going to work. "Are _you_ okay?"

Malcolm nodded. "I was just really worried about him, that's all. I don't think he'd joke about something like that. Other people would… but I don't think he would."

"I don't think so either. Which is why I'm really glad you said something." Jonathan felt his gaze being drawn back to the lock-picks. Who would've thought that something so small could be so important? He picked them up and examined them more closely. They really were well made, with no evidence of tool marks or weakness. _And he did them himself?_ The kid probably _would_ make a good engineer. _If he can get his math grades up_. He weighed them in his hand and reached a decision. Crossing the room, he opened the door and looked outside. The cabin was still deserted and Tucker was still asleep. Quietly he moved over to Tucker's bunk and tucked the picks into the boy's hand then folded his fingers around them.

"Nice and safe," he whispered. He didn't _care_ about the illegality of it anymore… what was more important: the rules, or a kid's life? "Sleep tight, kiddo." He turned around to see Malcolm's smile and shrugged. "Don't tell on me, I'd just get fired."

Malcolm nodded and Jonathan realised that the sides had just changed again. _Now it's you and me against him. Just so long as he never figures it out._


	9. Bonding

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This is for entertainment only.

Author's note: Sorry, so long, but I work 40 hour weeks, I've got a beta reader who currently has only intermittent connections to the internet, am working on several other stories, FF.net was down… there's a lot of reasons.

Thank you so much to my beta readers, **gaianarchy** and **silvershadowfire**, without whom this would be a lot more confusing.

**Chapter 9: Bonding**

Trip woke to a sticky mouth and felt his face burning with the salt of dried tears. He clenched his fists to stretch…

_Holy shit._ He bolted upright and stared down at his hand, then turned to look at Jonathan's door. _No way_. But there they were, nestled in his palm. _My shims. Son of a bitch. He gave me back my shims._ Another thought occurred to him. _Why?_ Grown-ups – and Jonathan was supposed to be a grown-up – didn't give you back things like this after they took them away. Even _if_ they felt sorry for you… and that was a big 'if'. _Most people would be glad if I took myself out of their hair_.

"Are you okay, Trip?" Malcolm's quiet voice drifted up out of the darkness.

He rolled over and hung his head over the side, barely able to see the younger boy. "Yeah. I'm okay. You okay?"

"I thought you might be mad at me. For telling Jonathan." Malcolm sounded so tentative that he seemed like his old bad self.

"Naw. I mean, what were you supposed to do? It must have been pretty scary for you." How could he get mad at someone for being scared? Like Jonathan had pointed out, Malcolm _was_ only ten. "I _was_ feeling pretty intense." He felt like he should explain it. "I get cranky and out of sorts when I don't sleep. And I do a lot of stupid things." Okay, so he'd been well past what most people thought of as stupid. _But how can I tell a ten-year-old the truth? Even one as smart as Malcolm?_ That sometimes it was just too hard to keep fighting… and that fighting was his whole life. _I'm a fighter_. And when a fighter couldn't fight any more… _what's the point?_ What had that Chandler guy called it… that movie? _The Big Sleep_. Warner Brothers, 1946, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Yeah, that Marlowe guy was pretty cool… and the movie was one of the 'film-noir' classics, which meant he'd had to wait until his parents were in bed before he watched it. Just sometimes a big sleep became so tempting… "But I'm okay, now. Sorry if I freaked you out."

"It's okay. You don't have to apologise. I was just very worried about you, that's all."

"Yeah, well… most people don't. I mean… if I'dve said anything back home… people would've probably just laughed at me. Or said I was being stupid. So… thanks. I don't think I've meant enough to anyone for them to worry before." _Cut that out. You'll scare him again_. And the last thing he wanted was for Jonathan to come in here and give him another hug. _Marlowe wouldn't have stood for anything like that_. "I just really needed some sleep, that's all."

_And a good cry_, he reminded himself, treacherously. But that was okay, because Jonathan had been crying too. _And he's supposed to be a grown-up_.

"All right. As long as you're okay."

_Yeah, kid_. He lay back on his bunk, enjoying the cold smooth feel of the picks in his fingers. _I'm okay._ He rolled over and held them tight in his fist, letting their comforting presence lull him back into sleep. Normal, regular sleep – miles away from the Big one.

He woke again to the rhythm of a finger tapping on his forehead. "Breakfast time, hotshot. Let's go." He opened his eyes to see Jonathan smiling down at him. "I let you sleep in past the shower – though God knows you need one – but you _need_ to get something to eat."

"Bring it here." He smirked. "I want to sleep in, today."

"Yesterday was pretty rough, wasn't it? Okay… I bring you breakfast in bed and you get up in time for practice. We've got our first game this evening."

Trip narrowed his eyes. _It always comes down to that damned game_.

"And it's not about the game. At least not baseball… 'You do the crime, you do the time.'" Jonathan's face grew more serious, then lightened again.

"Asshole." Trip gave the word no real heat and began to climb out of bed. He jumped down the last two rungs, aiming for Jonathan's foot. Missing, he stumbled and almost fell.

"Careful." Jonathan caught and steadied him. "Last thing I need is you cracking your skull… even if it is harder than a rock."

Trip said nothing, just rubbed his eyes. _God, I feel like shit_. Now he'd had too _much_ sleep, and it left him groggy. "Where is everybody?"

"Showers. They should be back in a couple. Most of them were disappointed that they weren't going to get their daily dose of entertainment… but I thought you could use the sleep."

"Uhhh." He realised he was still holding his picks and shoved them into his pocket. No sense in reminding Jonathan about them… he'd probably just take them away again. _I don't even know if it was you who gave them back to me_. It _could_ have been Malcolm, after all.

"How are you feeling, today?" Jonathan's voice dropped as he returned to serious.

"Fine. Tired." He knew Jonathan wanted reassuring, but couldn't do it. _What else can I say?_ Actually, it felt kind of like the morning after he'd drunk the cough syrup: his parents should've known better than to keep it under lock and key and out of his reach. Hell, he'd only been eight. He'd had a cough, and it was supposed to make you feel better, right? It wasn't his fault that the dosing instructions had syrup all over them and couldn't be read properly. He'd slept well then, too.

_Gotta love them hangovers_. If stuff like this wasn't reason to never start drinking… _then nothing's gonna stop me_. Instead, he headed for the door. Nothing about the idea of breakfast sounded appetizing … though he hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch.

He ignored the stares of the others as he headed past them. _Like I need you morons to tell me I look like hell_. If he looked half as good as he felt… _I could body-double for a corpse_.

He felt Jonathan watching him all through breakfast and forced down a couple of swallows of cereal to keep the guy happy. It was the least he could do, and he knew it. Maybe later he'd be able to eat more… once his body got used to the idea of food again. At least Malcolm didn't look so worried… he seemed to think that Trip was back to his normal self.

_Good. Because I don't want to have to worry about you_. Malcolm was one of the quiet ones – the ones that you never saw it coming with. _At least people expect trouble when they see me… they don't even _see_ you._

After breakfast came practice – just like Jonathan had promised. He still felt shaky, but managed to keep most of his pitches on target. He kept it as light as he could in an effort to protect Malcolm's hand, and Jonathan noticed.

"What happened to the fastball, hotshot? You getting soft on us?"

Trip gave him the finger and shook his head. _I don't want to hurt the kid, moron._ For one thing… they needed a catcher if they were going to play tonight -- there was no sense in taking Malcolm out too early. No way he was going to yell that out though… the others would just laugh at Malcolm for being too weak. _Kinda forgot that Dickhead couldn't handle it either, hey, guys_. This was stupid, having a game after only two practices. No way these guys were ready for actual play. _With any luck, the other guys are going to be in just as bad of shape._ Otherwise… _we're fucked._ The sun helped though, warming his muscles and pulling him into the moment. He closed his eyes, savouring it…

"Hey, hotshot." Trust Jonathan to spoil things. "C'mere."

Trip sighed and opened his eyes in time to see another counsellor walking over to the sidelines, then stopping to watch. _What now? I haven't had _time_ to do anything._ He trotted over to Jonathan.

"Emergency phone call for you. It's your parents."

Trip forced himself to keep a blank face. Had Jonathan called them? Did he tell them about yesterday? _I'll deny everything. They'd never believe it… and I can't worry them like that… they'd never trust me again_. Then again… it could be anything.

# # # #

_I didn't call them, kid. It's got to be something else_. _What_ else, Jonathan couldn't be sure… most kids didn't get emergency calls unless it was bad news. Which was why Jonathan decided to accompany Trip up to the main cabin – just in case the kid needed a shoulder to cry on again.

He leaned against the doorframe of the office while Trip went inside and sat down at the desk. "Hello?"

"Trip." The woman's voice – Trip's mother, Jonathan supposed – sounded relieved. "You have to talk to Elizabeth."

Trip blinked. "Sure, Mom. Put her on."

"Hold on, she's up a tree."

Jonathan had to stifle a giggle. _So you're not the only one_. Then again, with Trip as an example, was it any wonder that his younger siblings had a wild streak?

"Trip." This time the voice was much younger and with just the slightest trace of a lisp. "Hello."

"Hello, sweetie." Trip sounded so earnest that Jonathan nearly did a double take. _Who are you, and what have you done with the hotshot?_

"What are you doing in the tree?"

Jonathan couldn't help but smile at the answer.

"You can't be a squirrel, sweetie."

"Why?" Typical child's response to anything negative.

"Because it's silly, honey. You don't even like nuts."

"Mrs. Salazar told me not to be so squirrley. She said if I was going to act like that, I should be in a tree." Yeah, that sounded like Tucker logic, all right.

"Is Mrs. Salazar your new babysitter?"

There was no response from the other end.

"Was that a nod or a shake, sweetie? I can't see you here."

"Yes. All she makes is yucky food." Jonathan could almost picture a child's face twisting into a pout. "an' she doesn't read me good stories… an' she put Mr. Boos in the machine…an' she spanked James."

Darkness flickered over Trip's features, then disappeared. "Well, I'll talk to Mommy about that, okay? But you've got to come down from the tree. How long have you been up there?"

"Yesterday. She said if I didn't settle down an' eat my yucky sandwich I couldn't go play. So I decided to be a squirrel. Squirrels don't eat bologna."

_Well, you make sense there, kid_. If Jonathan had a choice between climbing a tree or eating bologna… _make room on that branch_.

"Well, it's Mommy and Daddy home now, right? So if Mrs. Salazar's not there… it's not safe for you to sleep in a tree, sweetie. So will you come down?"

"I don't wanna. I wanna be a squirrel."

"Please, sweetie? For me?" Trip's voice took on a new note of pleading, and Jonathan couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Okay." There was a sound of rustling then a thump. Jonathan hoped it was the receiver hitting the ground, and not a little girl.

"Trip?" Trip's mother's voice again. "Thank you. She wouldn't budge, and she hasn't eaten since yesterday…"

"Macaroni with parmesan." Trip sounded distracted. "And I'd like Mrs. Salazar's number, please."

"Trip… It's been hard enough to find a babysitter… I don't need…"

"Mom, I'll get the number one way or another. I just want to talk to her about Elizabeth. That's all." The change in Trip's tone when he dealt with his parents and when he dealt with his sister was remarkable. Now he sounded almost like a cop saying he'd come back with a warrant. Definitely no 'sweeties' here.

There was a sigh from the other end, then Trip's mother recited a number.

"Thank you. Is Elizabeth down, now?"

"Yes. Would you like to speak to her again?"

"Yes." There was a pause again then Elizabeth came back on.

"Hi, Trip! Are you coming home soon?"  
"As soon as I can, sweetie. Can you be good until I get there?"

"Really, really good?" Elizabeth sounded worried at the prospect.

"Just good." Jonathan could see Trip fighting down a smile. "No more squirrels, okay? And tell James I love him, and to be good too. And don't go to sleep with gum in your mouth either. Okay?"

"Okay, Trip. I love you!" There was a click and the line went dead. If Trip's mother had anything more to say to him, she'd been effectively cut off. Jonathan saw the smile emerge on Trip's lips again, then disappear as he began to punch in the number his mother had given him.

"Hey, hotshot, no outgoing…" The look Trip shot him shut him up. _I would not want to be Mrs. Salazar_.

"Hello?" This time the voice spoke heavily accented English.

"Senora Salazar?"

"Sí."

Trip let loose with a torrent of Spanish, his tone anything but polite. Mrs. Salazar tried to interrupt once or twice in protest, but Trip cut her off each time. This was followed by a brief argument that ended with Mrs. Salazar cutting off the communication.

"Bitch." Trip fell back in the chair, glaring at the communications console. At least _this_ looked like the kid Jonathan was used to. "Who the fuck does she think she is, smacking kids around like that? James doesn't eat peanut butter, end of story. And I don't think telling her so qualifies as mouthing off. _I_ could show her what mouthing off is if she wants…"

_You mean you didn't?_ Somehow, Jonathan didn't think that the Tuckers had a babysitter any more. _And the relief is sitting here in this office_. Dad had been right: Trip _was_ the protective type. And, from the sound of things, a full-fledged caretaker while he was at it. _He knows his brother and sister better than their parents do_. No wonder he had a tendency to act like an adult half the time and a little kid the other half. _You don't know the in betweens at all, do you? You're one or the other_. That helped explain why he was so good at work detail too: if Trip spent much of his time at home playing parent… he'd have a lot of experience in organizing and cleaning. Once again Jonathan felt a rush of sympathy for the boy. _So much responsibility on those small shoulders_. No wonder he had so many adult issues.

Yet the look on Trip's face when he talked to his sister had been unmistakable. He'd seen the same look on his dad's face when Henry Archer recounted one of Jonathan's escapades: a look of pride and love. _I bet it must kill you to be separated from her_.

"Everything all right now, hotshot?" He didn't want to cut Trip off in the middle of his rant, but at the same time, they had to get back to the practice. _At least Kendricks didn't get a good look at my ringer_. He wouldn't put it past the other counsellor to have volunteered to take the message down just to be able to do a little scouting. They were playing Cabin Six tonight… suddenly Jonathan realised a major problem. _When that Jones kid hits, Malcolm will be right behind him._ He also realised that physical damage to _Malcolm _wasn't the major issue. "I don't want you pulling anything tonight, hotshot. Whatever anybody says: leave it alone, okay?"

Trip looked up at him with a complete air of innocence. Jonathan tried not to panic.

# # # #

_Dicks_. He heard the laughter from the Cabin Six players – especially ol'Jonesy – as he swung wildly and missed three straight pitches. As he handed the bat off to Kiprusoff, he looked over at Jonathan and shrugged. _Told ya I couldn't hit_. They'd been lucky and pulled batting duties first… after a performance like that, they wouldn't be expecting much when it was their turn up. _So sad_. He knew why they laughed – how could you not laugh when the guy with the big reputation turns out to be a whiffer – but he also knew how to shut them up.

Kip nailed one to the outfield… not bad, but he'd seen better. The _truly_ humiliating thing was that Jonsey up there on the mound couldn't pitch, and Trip _still_ couldn't hit a damn thing.

Still, they managed to get one run in for the inning, if only due to Kip's speed as a baserunner and the catcher's inability to catch. _And now the fun begins_.

He whiled away the first couple of innings getting a grip on each batter's style. _I wouldn't have to be doing this if you'd let me scout in the first place_. It meant that Six got in a few runs of their own… but Three was managing to hold their ground. Jonathan shot him a few quizzical looks, but probably assumed that his lecture had taken. _Leave it alone, huh?_ Like he'd do that any time soon.

By the fifth inning, he felt ready to go. _Prepare to die, suckers_. Even better, Jonathan's buddy – good ol' counsellor Kendricks – stepped up to bat, a confident look on his face. Like Jonathan, the guy was semi-competent, and getting a hit off of each at bat only increased his cockiness. Trip had seen him make a comment to Jonathan between innings, and the glance his way told him who it was about. Jonathan had merely shaken his head… but to Trip, the smart-remark was a gift. _You're not expecting anything._

Malcolm sent him a couple of signals, and he shook his head to each one. _This_ was the system they'd worked out… Trip would figure out the best way to handle each batter, and Malcolm would make it look real. In truth… the signals meant nothing, but served to drive the other guy nuts as they tried to figure them out.

He scuffed his feet in the dust, staring down at his shoes. Settling into position, he started a wind-up, and stopped. He adjusted his footing again, and tugged down the brim of his hat. Glancing down at Malcolm, he held the ball behind his back, turning it around in his fingers. He started a wind-up again, and then stopped again. This time it was his shoelaces he adjusted, then spent some more time brushing the dust off the knees of his pants. He glanced up at the sun, paused as though thinking…

"Just throw the ball, damnit!" The frustration in Kendricks' voice was unmistakable. He'd heard it many times over the years… from coaches, from teachers, and on rare occasion, from his parents. The anger made Kendricks straighten and pull a bit away from the plate, but not enough to count as being out of the box. _Sucker._

Trip went into the wind-up and released the ball before Kendricks could recover. The counsellor tried to swing – it was a solid strike either way, so he might as well swing at it – but didn't stand a chance.

"Strike one!" The umpire -- Mr. Neutral Ultra-wimp, Artsy-Crafty Jay -- bawled it out with a hint of surprise.

_You'd think he'd know better. Haven't we dealt, already?_ Trip neatly snagged the ball out of the air as Malcolm tossed it back – the kid's arm was getting stronger with the extra practice Trip had recommended. _And it's only been two days. Way to work on technique, Mal_. And here Malcolm thought he had no talents.

Trip settled into position and began his wind-up again. He watched Kendricks flinch – obviously remembering the performance before the last pitch – and took advantage of it. This time he burned it in immediately, before Kendricks even realised it was coming.

"Strike two."

Now the look in Kendricks eyes borderlined on pure murder. _What? I thought you were supposed to be a big boy? Can't handle a little head game?_ At least Jonathan had taken his humiliation with better humour. _And that was before the breakdown_. Then again, Kendricks probably belonged to the 'play nice, it's just a game' camp. The same camp that went absolutely _nuts_ when you managed to win the championship for them. And made you feel like shit, when you lost, even as they mouthed the platitudes. _Welcome to 'sport' folks._

Determination gave Kendricks just enough to catch the third pitch… a change-up that should've taken him off stride, nailing a line drive straight over the mound. _Stupid._

Trip leapt, feeling the ball burying itself in his glove. He heard Kip skidding to a stop behind him… like a good shortstop he'd been ready in case the pitcher failed. When he landed, he turned and nodded. "Good hustle." Kip looked like he'd been shocked, but nodded back.

_Hey. It _was_ good hustle. I'm not gonna praise you for something you didn't do, but I'm not gonna deny you doin' what you're supposed to, either._ Out of them, Kip was the least offensive. He hadn't been laughing when Dutretre and Hong went after Malcolm, even if he hadn't had the guts to stand up and say something. And he'd been willing to take instruction… even if that instruction had to be filtered through Jonathan. On the other hand… left field was definitely going to be a problem. _Just have to keep it away from him, I guess_.

He turned back towards the plate to see Kendricks throwing down his bat and stalking off in disgust. _Excellent_. With their fearless leader out of sorts… what was likely to happen to the rest of the team? He also caught the words Kendricks mouthed at Jonathan. _Talk to him_.

Jonathan looked over at Trip and nodded, his face impassive.

_Well, shit. Might as well get this over with_. Lecture was coming, whether he liked it or not. _No sense trying to avoid it_. He put the next two batters out of their misery quickly, then strolled off towards first base to meet Jonathan halfway.

Jonathan leaned in close, and kept his voice low so no one else could hear. "Nice use of strategy, kid."

Trip blinked, feeling as shocked as Kip had looked. He pulled back a little to look at Jonathan, but could read nothing from his face. "What?" he shot back, as sarcastically as he could manage. "Aren't we all supposed to be having fun?"

Jonathan gave him an odd look. "Not you, hotshot."

He couldn't help it. His lips twitched and he snorted with laughter. It was the perfect comeback, something he always tried for. Not only that, but it seemed that Jonathan's 'lecture' was over. _He actually doesn't _mind_ me pulling this shit._ Back home, coach would've told him to stop playing games, all the while wanting him to win. _But if somebody wins, somebody else loses_. And if there was one thing Trip Tucker would never be, that thing was _loser_.

A huddled discussion took place in the Cabin Six dugout before Kendricks and Jonesy switched places. _Interesting_. So, obviously, Kendricks wanted a little shot of revenge.

_Your loss, pal_. Trip stood dispassionately at the plate and let three strikes burn past him without even trying. The only reason he'd swung before was to build these jokers up before tearing them down. He knew Jonathan had thought of him as a ringer, and knew he wouldn't be one by this games end. _Everyone_ would know about him now… but that would only serve to psyche them out before they started. _Why do you think I planned this?_

He sat down on the bench beside Jonathan – Jonathan had insisted on this seating arrangement to 'keep an eye on you, hotshot' – and watched as Kip knocked a two base hit out of Kendricks.

"Good eye," he muttered, watching as Kip slid into second. He too, was learning fast, almost as fast as Malcolm.

"Was that a compliment I just heard, hotshot?" Jonathan kept his eyes fixed on the action, and Trip could tell he was speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fuck you." Okay, so maybe it wasn't the nicest thing to say… _but I'm not nice_.

"I think that would be illegal, hotshot." Jonathan still didn't look at him, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the smile beginning to form on the counsellor's face.

_Another good one_. Adults _never_ came out with stuff like that – not to kids. _They don't think we're smart enough to figure them out_. Okay, so there were other reasons too… but sometimes people could be paranoid.

"I prefer girls." Okay, so he hadn't actually had any experience in the area… but Jonathan didn't know that. "And you'd be damned ugly as one of those."

This time it was Jonathan's turn to laugh, making the others look at them and wonder what the joke was. They'd never get it anyway… or they'd tell somebody who wouldn't see it as a joke, which would lead to a _huge_ set of problems. A familiar litany came into his head. _I hate stupid people_. People like Dutretre and Mr. Calvin: as far as Trip was concerned, prejudice was the only _true_ stupidity in existence. Sure, not everybody was as intelligent as everybody else…but that didn't make them truly _stupid_. _And Mr. Calvin is definitely prejudiced_. Not in any way that people could latch onto… even if he had remarked to Trip – in front of the whole class – that Trip was 'too stupid' for the honours program. But Mr. Calvin had proven that day that he was the stupid one… unable to figure out why his car wouldn't start when he tried to leave, or how his wife found out about his boyfriend. _Don't fuck with a hacker, pal._ It hadn't taken much… just a few broken connections for the car and a slight invasion of the communications system for the numbers.

_You were the one stupid enough to use the school system to make the calls_. And how could he _not_ have known that Trip was at the school after hours? _Everybody_ knew he had a standing appointment in the detention hall for _something_. He'd overheard a mushy conversation while idling in the hallway outside the office… but had never thought to use it until Mr. Calvin humiliated him publicly. _Turnabout is fair play, pal_. He'd never before been that vicious, but some people just shouldn't be let loose around kids. _Anyone_ who thought that insulting a kid like that in front of his peers was okay, _definitely_ didn't belong in the teaching profession. After all, how long before someone _really_ got hurt? _And James gets you next year… and I'm _not_ letting you pull _anything_ on him._ If Mr. Calvin did… it would be more than a tampered with car and a messy divorce – son-of-a-bitch wouldn't be able to _walk_ by the time Trip finished with him.

"Something wrong, hotshot?" Trip's new line of thought must have shown on his face, because Jonathan suddenly turned to look at him, all concerned.

"Nothin'." He stood up and began hurrying towards the mound… Dutretre had just struck out to start the bottom of the inning. He settled into position and looked up.

Jonesy stood in the batter's box, making some sort of remark to Malcolm who shrunk in on himself while Jonesy laughed. Anger boiled up past Trip's control, and he stared at the big kid more intently than Kendricks had at him.

Jonesy said something again, and then turned to look at Trip. He swung the bat a couple of times, barely missing Malcolm's head.

_Going down, asshole._ The fastball burned in hard and to the right, burrowing itself into Jonesy's ribs. Jonesy screamed in pain and dropped, nearly landing on Malcolm. _Oops. _"Sorry."

"Jon!" Kendricks came off the bench with a scream of his own. "_Do_ something about that kid. He did this on purpose." He rushed over to Jonesy and began checking the boy for injuries.

"You don't know that." Jonathan headed to Jonesy too, taking off his glove as he trotted in from first base. "He's a kid. This is probably an accident."

Jonesy sat up, and from his movements Trip could tell that the ribs were probably bruised, but not broken. _Got enough experience there, myself_. Guy had enough bulk to protect him – he looked like a linebacker for God's sake. The two counsellors asked him some questions, and he nodded before being helped to his feet and walked off the field.

Jonathan came out to the mound, his jaw set tight. "I don't want to hear that you did that on purpose, hotshot."

Trip said nothing, but nodded. It _could_ just be taken as agreement with Jonathan's statement, and that seemed to be the way Jonathan was inclined to interpret it.

"_Watch_ it. One more of those, and it's an automatic forfeit. If you _did_ do it on purpose…"

"Ask my coach about control. He rags on me about it all the time." _That_ was the absolute truth. His coach didn't know how much control he had either.

Jonathan's eyes bored into his, as though trying to divine lie in the truth. Trip didn't flinch, just stared back until Jonathan looked away. "Okay. But be _careful_, all right? I know Malcolm's your friend… but I think I also said something about leaving it alone. I can't prove that was on purpose…"

_Damn right you can't_.

"…which is a good thing for you. On purpose would make it assault… and even if they _can't_ prosecute on account of your age… it's a one way ticket home. Now, he needs to see the nurse… but it looks like a couple of bruised ribs. And with this… Kendricks is going to have his eye on you from now on. Understand?"

"Jonesy's the one who needs to be sent home." The outburst startled Trip; he hadn't meant to say it. "He tortures Malcolm on a regular basis… but I guess that's _okay_ because Malcolm's shy and little and it's the natural order of things. But it's all 'poor baby' if he has to take a little of his own back. You know, people like you make me so _sick_." He turned to leave, just needing to get the hell out of there.

"Hey." Jonathan grabbed his arm. "I'm not _saying_ he's the good guy here. I don't like what he does to Malcolm any more than you do. But you can't solve that by drilling him."

Angrily, Trip shook him off. "Then why don't _you_ do something? Isn't that your job? You're supposed to be responsible for us… why don't you try taking a little responsibility?"

# # # #

The words stung, just like they were meant to. Jonathan stepped back, feeling like he'd been slapped again. _So this is how you play big brother_. He thought he _had_ been doing something… but clearly it hadn't been enough. Because Jonesy had still thought it okay to threaten Malcolm, right out there in front of everybody, _including_ both counsellors. _I pity anyone who messes with your brother or sister_. Trip took the eldest role seriously, and now Jonathan understood what that truly meant. _Take on them, and you take on _me_._ Jonathan remembered the way Trip had ripped into Mrs. Salazar earlier… all over a minor incident thousands of miles away.

_Give me a break, kid, I'm still learning_. He'd felt a spark of anger himself at the way Jonesy had waved the bat casually around Malcolm's head, but had tried to tell himself that it wasn't intentional. Another spark had flared up when Kendricks blamed Trip… less than a week ago he'd have been handing out more work detail for something like this. Now…

"If Kendricks can't prove that you threw that pitch on purpose," Jonathan still avoided asking if Trip had, half afraid of the answer, "then we can't prove Jonesy was physically threatening Malcolm either. And if I'm going to let you get away with your delays and psych-outs… then we can't get on his case for a little trash talk either. Now I'll have another word with Kendricks… I know it probably won't do any good, but it establishes a pattern. In the meantime, both you and Malcolm stay away from _both_ of them. Walk away, if you have to. I know that's hard for you to do… but do it anyway. Okay?"

Trip didn't say anything, and Jonathan wondered what more he was supposed to do. He grabbed Trip's arm again and gave the boy a shake. "_Okay?_"

"Okay." Trip muttered. Jonathan couldn't quite read the look in Trip's eyes, but it looked as though he had capitulated.

As the game wore on, Jonathan wondered if it was a good thing. There was no passion to Trip now, nothing driving him to win. _Too much, too soon_. He should have known better, known that healing couldn't take place literally overnight. He'd tried for big brother and wound up all the way over in parent. Trip didn't say another word to anyone – not even Malcolm – for the rest of the game or at any point afterwards. Jonathan was afraid to approach him in front of the others in case he set off a chain reaction of events that ended up in Trip being hurt worse. _Yeah, I punished you all right._

# # # #

_I can't sleep… not if he's like that._ Malcolm lay in the darkness, staring at the near invisible bunk above him. He doubted Trip was sleeping either… but the older boy's unwillingness to talk had been disturbing. _You said you were okay_. He wasn't sure why he'd chosen to believe that lie… except that it hurt less than thinking that he couldn't help.

Silently he slipped out of his bed and climbed up the short ladder beside Trip's head. "Trip?" He whispered, knowing that if he was awake, Trip would hear him. _And if he's asleep, I'll let him sleep._

"Yeah?" A whisper came back, but there was little interest in the tone.

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

Trip rolled over to face Malcolm. "_You're_ asking _me_ if _I_ want to go out after lights out? Are you okay?"

"I just wanted to talk about some things, that's all." It wasn't a lie, he told himself – even if the things he wanted to talk about were basically Trip.

"Yeah, sure." Trip sat up and Malcolm scrambled down the ladder to let Trip descend. They crept out the door and down the stairs, heading without discussion down to the log that was to be their meeting place.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" Trip pulled himself up in that way he had, with one arm around the front of his legs and one woven under his knees and an elbow in each hand. It looked uncomfortable, but Malcolm supposed it couldn't be, if Trip did it so much.

"What happened? You didn't want to talk to anybody, and I thought you were maybe mad at me again… what did Jonathan say to you that got you so upset?"

"He tried to _claim_ that he'd been doing things to help you with Jonesy. Well, if his methods are so effective, how come Jonesy tried to take your head off?"

"You mean you _did_ hit him on purpose?" The idea of someone resorting to violence – in defence of Malcolm Reed – was inconceivable. "Why?"

Trip's face, barely visible in the moonlight, registered pure confusion. "To send him a message. He's not just messing with you… he's messing with both of us. And to let him know he's just as vulnerable. I told you, he picks on you only because he's bigger and stronger and has back-up. _You_ saw how everybody jumped on his case because he nearly brained you. As long as everybody pretends it doesn't happen… he'll keep doing it. But if he knows he has to take on _both_ of us…"

"You mean, _you_." Malcolm clarified. He caught the sarcasm when Trip talked about everybody getting on Jonesy's case, and had to agree.

"No, _both_ of us. Me _and _you. I'm nowhere near his size… but I am smarter than he is… which is one of the things that scares him. And he doesn't know me, so he can't guess how I'll react. He's going to come after me sooner or later… and I mean with more than he had at breakfast that time… and I'll need you to back me when he does."

Malcolm paled. "I can't fight Jonesy. I don't know how to fight… and I'm too little."

Trip shook his head. "I'm not asking you to. But like Jonathan said…" Trip paused and swallowed, like what he was saying hurt. "They're going to be watching me from now on. Anything between us… and they'll blame me, not him – no matter who starts it. I'm going to need you stand up for me, because you're the only one who can – the only one who _will_."

"Jonathan will." Malcolm didn't want to tell Trip how he knew that… didn't want to tell him about how many rules Jonathan had broken just to let Trip stay.

"Jonathan won't." Trip countered, firmly. "Jonathan still thinks I'm an out-of-control son-of-a-bitch. Push comes to shove… and he's covered his ass by telling me to stay away from the guy." Trip's voice dropped, and disappointment crept in. "Just when I was thinking he might be okay…"

Malcolm chewed on his lip to keep from crying. _What am I supposed to say?_ Jonathan had asked him to keep things a secret… and he wouldn't be a good person if he didn't. But he could see how Trip could interpret Jonathan's statements that way; if he'd been hurt by such things enough before, he'd have reason to be wary.

They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the forest around them. Malcolm knew he'd have to tell Jonathan about this conversation – for Trip's sake if nothing else – but it made him feel ashamed, like he was being a spy.

"If you need me to, I'll tell them," he said finally. Anything that happened _would_ be Jonesy's fault, anyway.

"Promise?"

Malcolm nodded.

"Thanks." Trip sat silently for another moment, then shifted to reach into his pocket and pull out a small knife. "Give me your hand."

Curiously, Malcolm did so. _What is he planning?_ Curiosity turned to shock as Trip turned Malcolm's palm face up, then brought the knife down, making a small cut. "What did…"

Trip let go and made a similar cut in his own palm, then grabbed Malcolm's hand again, pressing the cuts against each other. "Now we're blood brothers. That means we're always going to look after each other, no matter what. 'Cause we're family, now."

"Oh." Malcolm stared down at the blood that now smeared his palm, unable to tell his from Trip's. And wasn't that the point? He smiled, a little weakly, but meaning it. "I think I'd like your family better than mine."

Trip snorted. "Probably. But that doesn't mean they're perfect. But that's not the point. _We're_ brothers, and we're brothers by choice. That means the bond is even stronger than with the ones back home."

"Right." Malcolm didn't recall being given a choice in the matter, but he didn't want to argue, either. Nobody'd ever pledged loyalty to him over anything. And now Trip had made what Malcolm assumed was a sacred vow.

_Brothers_. It was a stronger word than friends, and it was one he knew Trip took seriously. 'Alloys are stronger.' A phrase from his History teacher came back to him. The teacher was talking about why countries formed alliances back when they fought against each other… information Malcolm already knew. He'd never understood it more than academically, before now. He looked at Trip, and remembered how scared he'd been of him when they'd first met. _I didn't even want you in my cabin_. Now… even though they were so opposite… he couldn't imagine life without Trip. _Light and dark. Alloyed together; stronger._ _Brothers_.


	10. Drowning

Disclaimer: These are not my characters… the story is written for entertainment purposes.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to my beta readers, _especially_ gaianarchy for the translations (I couldn't have done without her). And since so many people asked for it… here we go (well... and it's where the story's headed).

Chapter 10: Drowning

Jonathan woke early, too restless to sleep properly. Instead, he lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, brooding. _How am I going to screw things up today?_ Just when he thought he was getting somewhere with Trip, he'd say something and the kid would fly off the handle again. _Yesterday's reaction was _way_ overboard_. Yet… wasn't _everything_ a life and death issue when you were that age? _Can't you see I'm just trying to help you?_

Maybe he could, and that was the problem. If yesterday's communication with home was any indication… then Trip was used to being the one _asked_ for help, not the one receiving it. What was that childhood refrain? 'I wanna do it myself?'

_'He wants to show you how smart he is… how _capable_ he is.'_ Henry Archer's words crawled back into Jonathan's head. Yet there was more than that here, more than just a desire to impress. _And not just pride… but genuine _fear. What had Trip said about his coach? 'He rags on me all the time?' He'd had a quick word with Trip's teacher before the man left… just to make sure he _did_ still have a Tucker in his cabin, and looking back on it…

_"Yes, he's here. If there's one thing I'm glad of, it's that he's your problem, not mine, anymore." The teacher – Mr. Calvin – glanced down the path towards the cabins. "If there's one kid in my class destined to end up in prison, it's that one."_

_ Jonathan laughed. "He can't be _that_ bad… he's twelve, right?"_

_ "Like I said… I'm glad he's your problem." The teacher turned and left, and Jonathan wondered what about a twelve-year-old could be so bad_.

"Oh, kid…" If that's what Trip dealt with on a daily basis… no wonder he behaved so badly. What were those first words out of his mouth? 'My reputation spreads already?' _You just give people what they expect, don't you?_ And because they expected trouble… that's exactly what Trip handed them. Until it came to the point where the kid didn't trust anybody… at least not when it came to his feelings. _And I thought Malcolm was the one who knew all about hiding_._ But I'm willing to bet that 'sweetie' is closer to your true nature, isn't it?_ Because if he trusted anyone… it would be the one who wouldn't hurt him, because she wouldn't know how.

_And here I always thought that 'inside every bad kid, there's a good one' was just a cliché._ But Jonathan had _seen_ that good kid, and Elizabeth's voice testified to the reality of that image. He'd gotten the impression that – unlike most kids – Trip hadn't been dragooned into looking after his siblings, that to Trip, the job was a joy. _Dad had it pegged there, too_. Trip _was_ a sensitive kid…and perceptive enough to realise that sensitive kids got hurt.

_'…how's he supposed to know that you're not one of the hypocrites?'_ When Malcolm asked, Jonathan hadn't understood. _But I think I do now_. Trip – like most kids – saw the world in black-and-white; with-us-or-against-us. And Jonathan had taken a moderate stance, one that Trip had interpreted as criticism. _And he gets so much of that…_

_Aw, kid…_Just when he'd been making headway too. _I saw you laugh… and I _know_ you were cracking jokes with me on the bench. You were really starting to come out of it, and I basically went and slapped _you.

Jonathan sighed and sat up, blinking the tears out of his eyes. Hell, Trip hadn't even been speaking to _Malcolm_ after that…_I can only hope the damage isn't irreparable._ He climbed out of bed and changed into some fresh clothing. _I can't sleep…not like this_. To make matters _worse_, he'd _avoided_ Trip for the rest of the night. _I can only hope he's still _breathing. As the thought streaked in white-hot fire across his brain, Jonathan yanked the connecting door open and stared across at the far, upper bunk.

_Thank you, God_. Trip's chest rose and fell regularly, and one arm dangled over the side of the bunk. Jonathan crossed the floor silently and lifted up Trip's hand to take the pressure off the nerves. As he went to put it down on the boy's chest, he froze.

_Oh, God_. Blood crusted the palm, and some of it flaked away under Jonathan's touch. _What have you been _doing? He could see the cut, and it looked like it might have been self-inflicted. Quickly he scanned for any other signs of damage, but found none. _It's not the wrist. Get a grip on yourself, Jon, it's not the wrist_. He didn't doubt that Trip knew enough about the human body to know where the important blood vessels were.

He glanced down at Malcolm. One of his hands was bloody too, it bore a similar injury and similar smears. _So _that's_ it._ A wild, romantic gesture of the type that kids were so fond of. _I bet you believe in it, too_. Trip _would_ take stuff like that seriously. _So. You've officially expanded your family_. The two of them must have talked sometime late last night, and Jonathan had little doubt who would have instigated the conversation.

_You're a better man than I am, Malcolm_. It was hard to concede that to a ten-year-old, but the evidence spoke for itself. _Malcolm_ had been willing to stick his hand in the fire that was a wounded Trip Tucker – and Jonathan hadn't. And the kid must be some sort of miracle worker, because he hadn't been burned.

_On the other hand, this takes things to a whole new level_. If Trip had been protective of Malcolm _before_, God only knew how much more assiduous he'd be now that he had another younger brother. _Just, please, take my advice and stay away from Jones and Kendricks. I _like_ you, kiddo… I don't want to see you getting arrested._ Despite his teacher's assessment, Trip was _not_ a kid who belonged behind bars. _But he'll end up there, if nobody stops him_. _Or worse_. The big question was: how to stop him?

# # # #

_There's no help for it_. Unlike Trip, Malcolm had no grounds to refuse a shower. Still, even if the blood washed away, there'd still be the cut to remind him. _I have a brother_. The words sounded strange, even inside his own head. Even odder were Trip's words from last night: _He messes with both of us_. The thought gave him courage… he wasn't alone. _It's a natural phenomenon: the pack instinct_. Even the shyest, most gentle of dogs could be a vicious killer in a pack. _Even if I'm not the Alpha_. No, Trip and Jonathan were still fighting over that role… but Trip was the nastier fighter. Malcolm glanced over at Jonathan, who seemed to be ignoring him. _You're like me, though. You _worry_ about hurting people_. He knew what Trip meant, now, during that conversation in the woods. He _wasn't_ capable of being that nasty… he didn't have it in him to go for the throat. _But Trip could_. Even Jonesy stopped short of going in for the kill, preferring torture over death. But Trip… _I know why Jonathan wants you to stay away from him_. When Trip felt the need to protect a pack-mate… _He'll make sure you're dead, then tear apart the pieces._

"Hey, look who's here. Can't stand the smell of yourself anymore?" Dutretre's voice cut into Malcolm's thoughts, and Malcolm looked up in time to see Trip strolling through the door.

Trip made a half lunge at Dutretre who shrank back. Trip laughed, but there was a nasty edge to it. "Shee-it, boy, if I can stand _you_, I can pretty much stand anything." The accent was stronger – Malcolm could hear the deliberate sound of ignorance. He could also see the anger behind it. _He's trying _not_ to do something._

"Oooh, wow. Listen to the redneck." Dutretre tried to imitate Trip's accent, and failed miserably.

"That's cracker, boy. You might wanna learn the language 'fore you go tryin' to use it. Now, I can see where you'd make your mistake… bein' such an ignorant contortionist an' all."

"A what?" Now Dutretre looked totally lost.

"Well, how in the hell else you manage to get your head so far stuck up your ass, boy? 'Cause that's the only explanation for a brain so stupid and a face as ugly as yours."

"God, you are cranky in the morning." Jonathan stepped between the two combatants and gave Trip a significant look. "I _should_ let you sleep in past noon."

"Fuck off, dickhead." Trip pushed his way past Jonathan – who looked as though he expected the brushoff – and headed into the toilets. Moments later, they heard the sound of retching.

_Oh, no. Not again._ No wonder Trip had been so miserable… if he was getting another migraine. Malcolm saw the concern move into Jonathan's face, and knew the counsellor had the same thought.

"Okay, guys, let's move. Get your stuff back down to the cabin, and your selves on up to breakfast, okay?" Jonathan reacted first, herding the others out of the building. "I'll handle things here." He didn't seem to notice Malcolm slipping away from the group, or maybe he didn't care.

_But I'm not going to breakfast if Trip's sick again_. Instead, he hovered outside the bathroom stall, not wanting to get too close, as he remembered the nurse's comments about sensitivity to people.

Jonathan caught his eye, then gestured at himself and the stall. He then tapped forefingers and thumb together, indicating that he wanted to talk to Trip, and clearly wanted to talk to Trip alone. He then mouthed a single word. _Please?_

_He's worried_. Malcolm knew Jonathan wasn't trying to kick him out, but also knew there had been some serious problems between Jonathan and Trip. _He doesn't want to embarrass Trip_. Neither did Malcolm, for that matter. He nodded, and moved away to wait outside.

# # # #

"Hey, kiddo, you okay?" Jonathan opened the stall door to reveal Trip sitting on the floor beside the toilet, his head pressed against the cool tile. "Stupid question, huh?"

"Go away." Trip mumbled. "Leave me alone." He scrunched himself closer in between the wall and the toilet, not caring what else was in there with him.

"I already did that." Jonathan sat down against the opposite wall, practically having to fold himself double for his long frame to fit. "And it was stupid, I shouldn't have."

_Whatever_. Trip kept his eyes closed, and pretended not to notice that Jonathan was still there.

"I just don't want to see you getting into more trouble than you can handle, kiddo. And I know you think there's no such thing… but there is. I know it's not news to you that there are people in this world who aren't very nice…"

Trip opened one eye to stare cynically at Jonathan. _No shit, Sherlock_.

"… but you can't take them all on. I'm not saying you're wrong in wanting to protect people… but you've got to think about how you're going to do that. Because… damnit, there's enough people out there who think you belong in jail already. Do you want them to _win_? You're twelve years old, Trip… in some states that's old enough to be legally charged. And don't kid yourself that it won't happen… because somebody will." Jonathan's voice shook, and he sounded like he was close to crying. "You're a good kid, Trip. I heard you on the phone with your sister… but the problem is… nobody believes it. You won't _let_ anybody believe it."

_Why should I?_ Nice kids got hurt more. Look what happened with Malcolm all the time… and he saw enough of it back home, too. Besides, he _wasn't_ a nice person. _So stop lying to me. Stop acting like I'm stupid._

"In fact… I don't think _you_ believe it any more. Because it makes it easier, doesn't it? Until it's too hard to take…" Jonathan's voice trailed off, and he laid a light hand on Trip's shoulder. "Remember when I said I don't like seeing a kid in that much pain? I was talking about Malcolm, but the same thing applies to you, kiddo."

"Close your eyes then." Trip clamped his shut even tighter, to keep in the tears. "Go away and stop looking at me."

"No. 'Cause no matter how much it hurts… I'm not going to do that to you. It's what you're used to, isn't it, though? I talked with your teacher before he left… he seems to think you're well past the point of hope."

"That's his problem." Why _couldn't_ Jonathan just go and leave him alone? What was with him needing to _care_? _Does it make you feel like a better person?_ Hell, all this camp stuff was probably in prep to do social work or something.

"Yeah, it _is_ his problem… but it becomes your problem too. Because I hate to say it… but he's the one that people respect. If it ever comes down to his word against yours… it's the same with Kendricks and Jones. Aside from you and Malcolm… Jones is proving pretty popular around here…"

"Psychopaths always do." _That_ should throw this bleeding heart. _Psycho_. Universal Pictures, 1960. Anthony Perkins and Vivian Leigh. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock and – even now, Trip took pride in his movie trivia – made on a bet. Not that Norman Bates had been a psychopath… he was definitely psychotic. _The Thomas Crown_ _Affair _–The Mirisch Corporation, 1968, with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway – now _there_ was a psychopath. _And people say movies teach you nothing._

"You know, that's a description most people would apply to you. You're the one who seems like an unapologetic criminal." Jonathan didn't move – he didn't even take his hand away.

"Then I _am_ beyond hope. Psychos can't be changed." Trip tried to pull farther into the small gap. Couldn't Jonathan get it? What was his problem anyway? _Why do you care?_

"I said _most_ people, kiddo. I _know_ there's more to you than that. A psychopath wouldn't be so worried about his family, or people like Malcolm. And I don't think your criminal behaviour – and yeah, kiddo, it is criminal – has malicious intent behind it. You _could_ have done a lot more than you have… what did you steal, in all the time you've been here? A six pack of beer and some cigarettes, neither one of which should have been here for you to take in the first place? And you didn't really take most of the beer… you just dumped it down the sink, right? Oh, and probably some laundry soap and stain remover, right? Hmn. Yeah, that sounds like the behaviour of a dangerous criminal to me."

"Go to Hell." How was he supposed to believe people cared, when they pulled shit like this? 'I care about you,' followed up by a serious mocking. 'Isn't he just soprecious?' So he didn't steal things… how did that make him any less dangerous? "Just go to Hell and leave me _alone_." He knocked Jonathan's hand away. _Damnit. Can't you see I'm in pain here? Do you _have_ to add to it?_

"I'm sorry, that's not how I meant for it to come out." Trip could hear the dry sarcasm in Jonathan's tone. "I'm not trying to say you're not _capable_ of it, Trip, I'm saying that you _don't_ do it. Most 'trouble kids'" the quotation marks clicked in audibly around the words, "are out to hurt people. You might drive people _crazy_, but I don't see you hurting them without a reason. But even smart people have their blind spots… and yours is you. You really think other people are somehow worth more than you are, don't you?"

_What_? Despite his pain, Trip opened his eyes to stare at Jonathan. What the hell crazy kind of idea was _that_? He shook his head, which hurt even more. "Fuck off."

He gasped as Jonathan suddenly stood up and jerked him to his feet. "Come on." Jonathan pulled him from the stall and dropped him down in front of the sinks. "What do you see there?" Jonathan's finger stabbed at the mirror over the sink and at the two of them reflected in it.

Trip didn't answer, just dropped his eyes. _Nothing_.

"Because what I see? I see a smart kid, a _very_ smart kid who's not just smart, but he's creative. A kid who's willing to figure out how something _can_ be done, rather than whining away about how it can't. I see a kid who's willing to invest more time and effort in something he's interested in than most people _twice_ his age…"

"Yeah, and who's that standing in front of him?" Trip tried to twist away, but Jonathan held him too tightly. He winced with another wave of pain, but this one was weaker… slowly, the migraine was receding.

"Damnit, Trip." Jonathan shook him, not too roughly – but enough to hurt in his current condition. "You know damn _well_ who I'm talking about. You think I don't know how much talent and time it takes to learn how to throw a knuckleball? You think I was _joking_ when I said you had a good grasp of strategy? But that's not going to mean a damn thing if you let your temper and your impulsiveness push you into something too big to get out of. Your motives are good, Trip… _especially_ with what you did yesterday… and yeah, I have decided that it was on purpose… but what you do isn't always the best course of action."

"You're right. I should be perfect, like you." Trip didn't even try to hide his bitterness. Why did this jerk have to _do_ this to him? _Can't you see I'm miserable enough as it is, without rubbing it in?_ Of _course_ he was smart… that was half the problem. _Smart enough to be told I have a learning disability_. _That_ had been a riot… grade one teacher telling his parents that Trip couldn't read. Mom and Dad had to fight that diagnosis… and the stupid bitch had to apologise when Trip tested out on a grade five reading level. _I just didn't read like I was 'supposed to.'_ It probably hadn't helped that his handwriting skills were non-existent… _but whoever said reading and writing were the same thing is just stupid_. The _label_ stuck, however… _and I've been Number One Problem ever since_.

"I'm not perfect. I am _far_ from perfect. You said it yourself… I can't even protect a little kid. But I also happen to _know_ that vigilante justice isn't going to work either."

Trip said nothing, just forced the muscles in his shoulders to relax and create enough room to slip out of Jonathan's loosening grip.

"You tell me I'm smart, like it's a good thing." With Jonathan between him and the door, Trip found himself trapped.

"Excuse me?"

"You tell me I'm smart, like it's a good thing." Trip spun around and faced Jonathan, his eyes blazing. "I would rather be _stupid_, because then I wouldn't know it was supposed to hurt when people treat me like I am. You think smart's so good? Look at Malcolm. He's probably smarter than _both_ of us put together… and he's got to look in every shadow for something that'll beat him up. All smart means is _different_ and people don't like different. And when you're smart… you can figure that out, real quick. And… and I'm so _blessed_ to be an athlete… it's…it's…this _gift_ that means I get to be even _more_ different." He could feel the words jamming up behind his tongue and his jaw locking around them. _This_ was why he didn't talk too much when he was extra-mad… because it brought out the one big thing that people _really_ pounced all over. "You…you haven't got the…slightest idea how…_wonderful_ it is to be smar…smart." He spoke slowly, trying to get the words out in one piece. _It's not a stutter –, it's a stammer_. Stutterers had trouble with initial consonants, stammerers repeated words, or paused in the middle. _It's a different problem_. "You… you've always been the… popular one, ri.. ight? You've never been…never been the freak." He didn't tell that part to Malcolm… that the kid he'd made fun of had been in his Speech Therapy class. _Like I could talk_. Besides, nobody'd believe he had ever been _in _Speech Therapy – not since now he could talk a blue streak, when he wanted. _But it's how I learned Spanish_. Funnily, when he switched languages, the problem disappeared.

"I'm sorry." Jonathan sagged against the sinks. Trip could see the shock in his eyes, had seen it grow with every hesitation. "I didn't realise it was so rough."

"Yeah, well it… it is. So… don't go…_pretending_ that you know me…that you know how I feel… because you haven't…you haven't got a fucking clue." With that he pushed his way outside, to where he knew Malcolm would be waiting. _At least he knows what it feels like_.

Except… Malcolm wasn't there. _Don't tell me you left on me, kid_. His eyes dropped to the dirt, to a pair of short lived scuff marks – like someone had been dragged away from the steps, then lifted off of the ground.

_Dead man_. Adrenaline fuelled his stress-ridden legs and instinct propelled him towards the lake. He prayed he wasn't too late… that they weren't that far ahead. _This time I _am_ going to kill him._ When he spotted who it was, he ran even faster. His speed might be useless in baseball – where he couldn't hit – but a quarterback who couldn't make decent speed over a hundred yards was _worse_ than useless. _I'm going to kill _all_ of them_. Jonesy, Dutretre, and Hong manhandled Malcolm between them down the dock. He could see Malcolm trying to fight back, but terror made the younger boy's efforts futile. He was close enough to hear Jonesy laugh when they threw Malcolm into the water. They were already on their way back when Trip's sneakers hit the dock and he saw them bracing for an attack. _Where's an offensive lineman when you need him?_ Robbed of anyone to block for him, Trip weaved, dodging past them like he was on his way for a touchdown. They seemed surprised when he didn't attack, but he had more important things to worry about. _I'll kill you _later. Now…

He threw himself into a shallow dive, unsure how deep the water was here. The shock of the cold took his breath away, and the weight of the water soaking into his clothes pulled him under.

_Okay, you're panicking. That's natural… get some air_. He'd learned that, first day diving. Not 'don't panic' but 'you _will_ panic.' Panic was the body's natural response to lack of air. The trick was to recognise it… and deal with it before you inhaled a lung full of liquid. He kicked hard for the surface and sucked down a deep breath as soon as his head broke through. Then he dived down again, keeping his eyes open and searching for Malcolm's form. _Thank God for small mercies._ This was fresh water, and flowing enough to keep it clear. _It means I _can_ keep my eyes open_. He spotted a familiar head of dark hair and swam hard toward it. The drop-off in this part of the lake was fairly steep – that was why the camp didn't allow swimming here. Malcolm sank quickly, not even struggling. _Shit_. Kid was probably unconscious, which meant he _had_ breathed in water.

Trip reached out and snagged the collar of Malcolm's shirt then kicked towards the surface again. He could feel his chest burning and pain returning to his head. _I am _not_ going to let Malcolm die here_. If Trip drowned… that would be one thing… but Malcolm didn't deserve to. _He _is_ a good person._ He gasped, the moment he felt the air on his face, then pulled Malcolm close in a life-saving grip and struck out for the dock. _Hang in there, Mal. I'm here for ya, kid. Hang on._ Heaving, he managed to boost Malcolm's limp body onto the floating wood, but didn't have the energy to climb up after him. _You _have_ to… he's not breathing… he's going to _die. Desperation lent him strength, and he hauled himself up in one move, then crawled up to Malcolm's head. Breathing heavily, he checked the airway like he'd been taught, then pinched Malcolm's nostrils hard and lowered his mouth.

_Breathe_. He felt for a pulse on Malcolm's wrist and barely found it. _But it's there. It's there. He's still alive… he just needs to breathe_. He forced more air into Malcolm's lungs, hoping it would get past the water. _Where the hell _is_ everybody? I thought you said you cared, Jon._

# # # #

_Oh, man_._ I think I deserved that_. Jonathan watched Trip storm out, then turned and leaned his head against the mirror. _I wondered how I could screw it up further…_ How was he supposed to know that Trip's intelligence was one of his sore points. _You kept showing it off_… yet he could see – now – where the problems came in. Because Trip's intelligence wasn't normal. _Not that he's a genius…but he puts things together in ways other people can't_. Maybe it was it's own form of genius… not school smarts, but _world_ smarts.

_And that stammer_. Poor kid looked like he was fighting a war with himself just to get the words out. Hell, he probably was. _I bet you've taken your share of shots over that, too_. Jonathan sighed. Trip was wrong on one thing – Jonathan _hadn't_ been Mr. Popular… but he hadn't been one of the marginalized either. _I was just normal. A little geeky with my starship obsession… but nothing overboard_. _His_ athletic grace _had_ been a blessing… _but I was never that good, that early_. No wonder the kid was in so much pain… what did he say about wishing he was too stupid to understand?

_Remind me never to make judgements like that again_. He'd always envied the really smart kids… had never realised that it carried some pretty heavy burdens. He looked at himself and found that he was a little disappointed in what he saw.

"Some starship captain you're going to make. You can't even handle eight kids… how do you expect to lead an entire _crew_? And how can you say you'll have the diplomatic skills when you can't even hold a conversation with a twelve-year-old without ripping his heart out? Jonathan Archer… you are a serious fool."

Sighing again, he pushed himself away from the sink and headed outside. Neither of the boys was there. _Maybe Malcolm will figure out something to say_. So far he was doing better at it than Jonathan.

He was about to turn to head for the cabin when he spotted a gang of three coming up from the lake. _Oh shit_. Dutretre, Jones and Hong… all of them laughing at a shared joke.

Jonathan ran, his long legs carrying him down the path far ahead of the other three who had turned back for more entertainment, no doubt.

_Oh, no. No, no, nonononononono. _Malcolm lay stretched out on the dock and Trip breathed into the smaller boy's mouth.

"Look. Isn't it sweet. Kisses." Jonathan heard Dutretre laughing behind him, and resisted the urge to turn back and smack the kid.

_If he's dead, I'll strangle you with my bare hands._ Jonathan dropped to his knees beside Malcolm and looked at Trip.

" 'bout fucking time." Tears glittered in Trip's eyes but didn't fall. He bent down and blew another breath into Malcolm's lungs.

Malcolm coughed suddenly, spewing water from his mouth. Trip and Jonathan turned him over so he could clear his chest.

_Thank, God._ Jonathan looked up at the other three who'd gathered to watch. "_Hit that damned alarm NOW_!" He screamed it at them, not even thinking that they wouldn't obey.

Dutretre moved quickest, running over to the lifeguard station and pressing the button for the remote alarm.

"They…they…" Malcolm's voice was weak, but at least now he was conscious.

"Shh. Don't try to talk. Just relax. You're going to have to go to the hospital… they're going to have to check you out."

Malcolm shook and began to cry. "I…I…"

Jonathan looked over at Trip who climbed slowly to his feet. All the Southerner's attention was focused on the trio onshore.

"Hey." Jonathan reached up and grabbed Trip's arm. "No vigilante justice."

"They… nearly… killed… him." Trip shook too, even though the rising heat should have warmed him. His eyes burned cold, and Jonathan realised that lack of warmth wasn't the problem.

"I know… I know… but you can't help him like that." He watched the other counsellors come running and stood up. "Now… he has to go to the hospital… they can't touch him there. And believe me… this time I'm doing something."

"Too little, too late," Trip spat. "I want to go with him."

"I can't let you do that. He'll be in good hands, Trip." Jonathan kept a grip on Trip's arm as a couple of the others loaded Malcolm onto a stretcher and began carrying him back towards the main buildings.

Trip snarled and tried to break free, but Jonathan held on tighter. "_No_, hotshot. I'm having the final say on this one, okay? You want to hate me for it, that's fine. But I'm not letting you go. I am _not_ letting you go." He knew if he did… _I don't care _how_ young you are…you won't get away with murder_.

Trip clawed and kicked, and Jonathan winced as they connected. The kid was looking to do damage and was willing to do it to any target that presented itself. Trip pulled at Jonathan's fingers, then hammered on his hand, trying to break the grip. "Let me _go,_ you bastard!" In a final desperate move, Trip twisted and sunk his teeth into Jonathan's arm.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Reflexively, Jonathan pulled back and let go: Trip had bitten deep enough to draw blood. As soon as his grip relaxed, Trip squirmed out of it and took off up the path.

"Hey!" Jonathan started after him, but realised that even his longer stride wouldn't compensate for Trip's speed and head start. _I'm not a sprinter… and he is_. He looked down at his arm. Among his other attributes, Trip apparently had good teeth. A horseshoe of dents and punctures decorated Jonathan's bicep… and it was already beginning to throb.

"I hope he's not rabid." Kendricks came up beside him and looked clinically at the arm. "That's a pretty good…"

Jonathan grabbed Kendricks' shirt and slammed him into a nearby tree. "_Your_ boy just tried to kill one of mine… don't go telling me that _Tucker's_ rabid. If it wasn't for him, we'd have a death on our hands instead of a near drowning." A haze settled over his vision… but he found himself thinking more clearly. _I told _Trip_ no vigilante justice… but I'll take a little for me_. He felt the pain in his arm and fed off it, using it to drive him forward.

"I already talked to him, Jon, and he swears he had nothing to do with it. And _your_ boys back him up. I believe him, Jon… aside from that first day, I haven't had a bit of trouble with him. He gets along with everyone. Not like Trouble."

"Yeah, I hear psychopaths are good at that." Jonathan leaned in, using his height to his advantage. "You keep him _away_ from my kids… you hear me? I hear either of them even spotted him in the distance, I will be taking it out of _your_ hide, understand?"

"Jesus, Jon, what's wrong with you?" Kendricks looked scared and defensive. "How long have we been friends? What do you think you're doing?"

"Too damned long, obviously. But that ends now. Keep him the _fuck_ away, got it?" Jonathan gave him a shake then let him go.

Kendricks straightened his shirt, but wouldn't look directly at Jonathan. "You are out of control, Jon. You've let that kid get to you…"

"Go to Hell." Jonathan turned and stalked away. _Maybe 'that kid' has got a point. You think it's okay for them to push each other around? Try being on the losing end sometimes._ He stormed up the path and headed for the main cabin, ignoring the blood running more quickly down his arm with movement. _Hell, you seem to think it's okay for _you_ to push them around. And I _am_ stupid, because I never saw that before._ But Kendricks had clearly been out to humiliate Trip during the ball game… all because Trip had had the temerity to use his brains.

In the main cabin he grabbed a pad and began filling out some forms. _Because there is no way…_

"Jon. I heard…" Dino pushed through the door behind him. "Ouch." He looked at the form Jon was working on… "So you're finally sending him home, huh?"

"Not him." He finished one set and began working on the other. "A couple of the other two."

Dino raised both eyebrows. "Really."

"You know Malcolm? Shy kid, spends all his time hanging out with Tucker?"

Dino nodded.

"They just tossed him in the lake. Kid can't swim. If they stay here… I'm going to kill them. I cannot have them in my cabin."

"So that's who they took… then how…" He gestured at Jonathan's arm.

"I told Tucker he couldn't go to the hospital with Malcolm. He didn't take it very well."

"I wouldn't say so… you're going to need stitches for that, Jon. Probably a tetanus shot, too. You've got to go to the hospital, too."

"Not until I've made sure those two are gone. I'd get rid of the third one too… but Kendricks thinks he's an angel."

"Yeah, well Kendricks is an ass. I'll take care of him, Jon." Dino pulled the pad out of Jon's hand. "_And_ I'll make sure these two are dealt with as well… but you've _got_ to go to the hospital for that. I'll drive you down… then I'll look for the little demon for you." They both looked up at the sound of tires on gravel, and saw a white car with a horse and rider logo pulling up the drive. "And three guesses…"

Jonathan stepped outside and stared at the car for a moment before walking towards it. He could see the small form sitting stiffly in the back seat, locked safely behind the grill.

The uniformed driver stepped out of the car, and gestured towards the back seat. "Is this one of yours?"

Jonathan nodded. "Thank you. He's…"

"I picked him up about three clicks down the road. He kept saying that his friend was in the hospital… but you guys get a runaway every year, don't you?"

Jonathan didn't disabuse the constable of his notion. _It's easier than getting into the details._

"You his counsellor?" The constable looked at Jonathan, easily spotting the injury. "You should go to the hospital and get that taken care of."

Jonathan nodded again, keeping his eyes fixed on Trip. He still had blood smeared around his mouth – it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that he was responsible for Jonathan's wound. "I'll go, as soon as he's taken care of." No way was he going to avoid Trip now… he could see the all too familiar despair settling over the kid's features. _I told you, I'm not letting you go, kiddo._ The cop opened the door, and Jonathan held out his hand. Trip ignored it, and slid out of the car, not looking at either of them. The cop shook his head and closed the door before climbing back into the driver's seat and pulling away.

Trip stared after the car for a moment, then looked at Jonathan's bloody arm. Without a word, he tore a piece out of his shirt and folded it, before pressing it against the bite.

Jonathan winced, and then nodded. "Thanks." He reached his own hand around… a better fit to put even pressure on it.

Trip shrugged and turned away again, still not speaking.

_Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're not a good person._ Out of all the people who'd seen the damage… the only one who tried to fix it, was the guy who caused it in the first place. _World smarts_. Like figuring out that a bleeding wound needed a bandage. And any other kid would have done what they were _supposed_ to do: sound the alarm. _And then waited while Malcolm drowned_. Oh, there was sense behind the rule: no sense two kids dying instead of one; but thanks to this crazy, trouble kid, that total lay at zero.

_You're my hero, kid_. He wanted to say it, but didn't dare for fear of setting off another explosion. Still… there had to be something he could do to pay – even partially – this debt. _And as soon as I figure it out… I'm going to do it_.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

_Well, it's not like he did it maliciously_. Jonathan watched the doctor stitch up his arm, knowing the man was irritated by Jonathan's refusal to say what had happened. He just wished the guy would hurry up, so he could get back to Trip. _I bet you're driving Dino nuts with your silent game… aren't you?_ Maybe not… provided Dino didn't try asking any questions. Instantly Jonathan felt a twinge of guilt. It _wasn't_ a game, this time. Had it ever been?

Finally they let him go, with a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics. Apparently, between the origin of the wound and the questionable condition of the bandage, the chances of infection were pretty high. _I don't care_. He escaped gladly into the waiting room, only to find it bereft of either counsellor or kid.

Sighing, Jonathan crossed to the desk. "I'm looking for the kid that was brought in earlier… the near drowning?"

The nurse looked him over, taking in his bloody shirt and exhausted appearance. "Are you from the camp?"

"Yes… I'm his counsellor." Technically that made Jonathan legal guardian… and qualified to visit.

"Room 305. They're keeping him for observation." The nurse consulted her records then turned away to the next person.

_Observation. That means he's okay_. He headed for the elevator, with no doubts as to where he'd find Trip.

Malcolm looked even smaller and more vulnerable than usual, but he was awake and worried. Surprisingly, Trip was nowhere to be seen, nor was Dino. "How's Trip? Is he okay?" His eye caught sight of Jonathan's sleeve. "What happened?"

_What a pair of kids_. One risked his life to save the other… and the one who nearly died was concerned more about his rescuer than himself. "It's complicated. I'll be fine."

A bout of swearing from the corridor solved the mystery of Trip's whereabouts. Both Jonathan and Malcolm smiled before Jonathan stepped out to find Trip tearing a strip off Dino and a nurse.

"I'm sorry, but you can't go in there…" The nurse tried to explain hospital policy while Dino held Trip by the collar. "It's…"

"He saved the other boy's life." Jonathan said, softly. "Can't you bend the rules a little and let them see each other?"

"Visiting hours are between six and eight, and…"

Jonathan nodded at Dino who let Trip go. Trip dodged past the nurse and into Malcolm's room. The look from the nurse was meant to kill, but Jonathan ignored it. _Hell, I've dealt with the _master_ of those looks, lady. If that kid hasn't dropped me by now…_ He glanced over at two heads bent together, deep in conversation. _Good luck_.

Realising she couldn't win, the nurse turned away, muttering under her breath. Jonathan watched her go, then sat down against the wall.

"You know there's not a hell of a lot we can do. We can't prove those kids tried to drown…" Dino leaned against the wall opposite Jonathan and began fiddling with his cigarettes.

"What the hell else would they be doing?" Jonathan's patience snapped. "What the hell else could you _call_ a stunt like that? Jesus, how many more kids have to die before people take stuff like this seriously? If it hadn't been for Trip, Malcolm _would_ be dead. Those three were walking away when I saw them… they didn't even bother to press the alarm. They were willing to let him _die_. I know… I know. They're too young to prosecute, right? Which means it's the responsibility of the adults… which for two of them means me. Fine. I'll accept that… it is my fault and my responsibility." The full weight of it caught up to him, and he could feel himself cracking under the strain. _No wonder Trip can't handle this kind of guilt, _I_ can't handle this kind of guilt… I signed on to protect these kids, and now I've put them in danger…_

"They're old enough to fucking know better." The edge in Trip's voice caught both counsellors' attention. He closed the door behind him, and moved down the hall. "Pero siempre se le inculpa por ellos, entonces se los libra encharle disculpa." Jonathan and Dino both blinked, wearing twin expressions of non-comprehension. _Um… in case you didn't guess, kid… I don't speak Spanish. And I don't think he does either._

Trip clenched and unclenched his fist in the manner Jonathan was learning to recognise as a sign of frustration. Jonathan remembered hearing how some people used other languages to deal with a speech problem. _Is that your trick?_ "Um… Yo no hablo Español, amigo."

Trip winced, and shot Jonathan a look that said _No shit_. On the other hand, being able to redirect some of his hostility seemed to allow the kid a chance to gain better control of himself… at least enough to speak English. "I _said_ everybody takes the blame for them. They're so used to being 'special' and 'privileged' that they don't fucking _care_ anymore. Hell, my baby sister's old enough to know better than that. The _problem_ is that everyone says 'they're just kids…' but _I'm_ a kid, and _I _know I'm not supposed to do stuff like that." He rounded on Jonathan. "I know you pretty much did dick-all to stop it, but unless you told them to do it, it's… it's _their_ choice, the.. their responsibility." He stopped for a moment and took several deep breaths. "So don't you _dare_ say they're too young… don't you _dare_ say this is something that happens… or they didn't know what could happen." Tears brimmed in his eyes, but wouldn't fall.

_You blame yourself, too, don't you kiddo_? The truth was written all over Trip's face and Jonathan could see the 'if onlys' running through the boy's head. _If only you hadn't left him outside… if only you'd been there to protect him_. The same ones chased around Jonathan's brain, growing with every revolution. He reached out to Trip, but wasn't surprised when Trip ignored him, turning away. _Yeah, Jon… one hell of a captain_.


	11. Explosions

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I'm just 'borrowing' them for a while to amuse myself.

Author's note: Please… I'm working as fast as I can. I have to share a computer… I do 40 hour work weeks…I have a beta-reader who's away from the internet right now… It's a long chapter… It's not the only thing I'm working on… and I want it to be good. Now that I've done my pleading and whining: Please… review. Let me know what you think – good, bad or indifferent.

**Chapter 11: Explosions**

_ I should'a been there. Why didn't he scream?_ Yet he knew why Malcolm didn't scream and… _It's all my fault_. He must've been so scared but wouldn't scream because… _ he didn't want me to think he was a baby_. _So what if I had a migraine?_ _I still should'a been able to help you,_ _especially since I got you there in the first place_.

And now, apparently some doctor needed to check him out just because he'd chomped Jonathan. _I hope he's not contagious_. He hadn't meant to bite that hard, but he'd been so scared and couldn't get away. He wondered what Jonathan was going to do to him for that. Not to mention for breaking all those rules about going in the water without a lifeguard… _if you were gonna send me home for _smacking_ you, I can't imagine what you'd do for blood_.

Even as it was they were treating him like a prisoner: aside from his time with Malcolm and now with the doctor, he hadn't been left alone since the cop hauled him back to the camp instead of here. Jonathan hovered outside the door, watching.

_It's not like I'm going anywhere_. Wasn't that the definition of a failure? Someone who wasn't going anywhere? _And if anybody's a failure…_ He'd asked Malcolm to stand up for him, but hadn't been there when Malcolm needed the standing up for.

And now the doctor was asking him how he _felt_. "Fine. Just kinda tired, that's all."

"That's understandable." The doctor looked over a couple more things on his scanner. At least _this_ guy was good with kids… he hadn't once used that phoney 'how are _we_ feeling' voice, nor had he been Mr. Smiley. In fact, he hadn't smiled once – had just asked some questions and run some tests. "You've been through a lot." He picked up a small tube of gel and smeared it on Trip's hand. "You picked up a minor infection in that cut… probably from the water… keep it clean and put this on it twice a day." He handed the tube to Trip. Other than that, you're fine. The biggest thing you need right now is sleep… and something to eat."

Trip nodded. Why was it everybody was always telling him to eat stuff? _I didn't bite the guy because I was hungry_. He could think of a billion other things he'd rather eat, up to and including bologna. _Hate to break it to ya, pal, but ya taste like shit_.

At least nobody'd been treating him like the big hero, either. _God, I hate that_. Wouldn't the world be better off if people stopped treating other people like heroes for doing something good, and just did the same thing themselves? _Besides, I'm not_. A _real_ hero, a good one, wouldn't have let it come to this in the first place. _'With great power, comes great responsibility.' Yeah, I sure fucked up that one all right_. Of all his childhood comicbook heroes, he still loved _Spiderman_ best. Peter Parker _knew_ what it was like to be a freak… and yet to have people in love with this image they didn't even know was you. _Not to mention Spidey caught hell as a vigilante_. Even as a superhero, Parker couldn't win… but at least he _tried_.

But, like he'd told Malcolm, he'd outgrown the rest of them, except as covers for the ones he _really_ read. _If Dad knew about them_… he suspected his mother knew – but she trusted Trip's intelligence more. As long as he kept them away from his brother and sister, she didn't hassle him.

_I don't think James would be too interested in Frank Miller, anyway_. James could be so depressingly _normal_ at times. Dad liked James best, because James didn't pull stunts like Trip and Elizabeth… at least not without help. And James had lots of friends… or at least people who appeared to be friends. _Everybody's friends when you're ten._ Except in cases like Malcolm's, of course, but then again, Malcolm wasn't really ten. _He's just really, really short_. That was the only explanation for it… Malcolm was actually an _old_ person… like twenty-five or something. He just looked ten, like those undercover cops in the movies. _I wouldn't be that calm if someone just tried to kill me_.

"You're free to go." The doctor's voice interrupted Trip's thoughts. "If you start running a fever, or get a headache or anything… you come right back. There could be a secondary infection that hasn't manifested itself yet."

Trip nodded again. "Thanks." He jumped down from the bed and headed for the door. _And back into custody_.

"So what'd the doctor say, kiddo? You okay?" Jonathan was starting to look a little out of it, good thing that Dino guy was driving. They must've given him some pretty heavy painkillers.

"Fine." What else did he need to say? It wasn't Jonathan's business how he was… that was between him and the doctor. _And he says I'm okay… so who am I to argue with the expert?_ He hadn't lied – he _did_ feel tired… but he definitely wasn't hungry. _I don't know if I'll ever eat again_. Not if his stomach continued to feel like this.

Once again Jonathan proved he was psychic. "You need something to eat, kiddo. You haven't had anything all day – and no I do _not_ count my arm as breakfast. And you didn't eat much yesterday either. You can't keep running on empty."

"I'm fine." He didn't bother to add that the doctor gave him the same advice. _I don't _want_ to eat. I'm not hungry._

Jonathan steered him towards the cafeteria anyway. "How about some soup? I know it's not exactly 'summer food,' but it should be easy enough on your stomach."

_Whatever_. He _wasn't_ hungry. Why wouldn't people catch on to that sort of thing?

He stared at the soup Jonathan bought, unconsciously mimicking the scene from that first breakfast. The thought of swallowing a single mouthful made his stomach tighten and twist.

"Hey, come on, kiddo. Eat." Jonathan played his role, too, nudging the bowl closer to Trip.

This time the dish did go flying, straight at Jonathan. "_I'm not hungry!_" Jonathan blinked for a second – covered in chicken broth and noodles – then stood up and crossed over to Trip, trapping him in another one of those hugs.

"I know you're upset, kiddo… I am too. But you're the one who said it was _their_ fault… so if _I'm_ not responsible, how can you be?"

Trip squirmed and struggled, trying to get away. He wanted to break things, and to hurt things, starting with himself. Malcolm wasn't _Jonathan's_ blood brother; Jonathan hadn't made any vows to protect him. _Just that counsellor shit… and that's not the same thing_. And Dutretre and Hong wouldn't have taken on Malcolm if Trip hadn't been involved first. _It's _me_ they hate, not him. All he woulda had to worry about woulda been Jonesy… and he _knows_ how to deal with that. But I put ideas in his head – I let him think that these kinds of things could be fought._

Jonathan held tight – too tight for Trip to gain an advantage. "Shh. Just take a deep breath…"

"I never shoulda been his friend to start with. He… he'da been better off…" He muttered it to himself, but Jonathan picked it up anyway.

"That's not true, Trip. I bet if we went up there right now, he'd say meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to him."

Trip shook his head violently, more out of frustration than denial. "That's just 'cause he's too polite. He was taught to be nice to people… not tell them the truth." He knew people were staring, and wished Jonathan would just let him go. _Now they'll lock me up in the psych ward._

An overweight woman in an ugly bright flowered dress approached. "Is everything okay here?" She had that 'mommy' look… like she thought Jonathan was pulling something perverted or something.

"My little brother. He's a little upset, that's all. His friend had an accident."

"Oh." The woman spared Trip a quick smile. "I'm sure he'll be okay, honey." She looked oddly at the two of them… one blond and one brunet, and at the obvious height difference, but didn't argue.

_Little _brother? _Where the hell did you come up with _that? Shock caused Trip to stop dead. It was just an excuse to get rid of the busy-body, it had to be.

"Hey, you're not the only one allowed to go around adopting people, kiddo. If you can make Malcolm _your_ little brother, why can't I make you _mine_?"

_Because it's wrong… that's why._ Look what it did to Malcolm: it earned him a free overnight stay in a freaking _hospital_. Besides, why would he want to be brother to this over-grown social worker, anyway?

"Hey, guys… everything okay?" At least this Dino guy was cool. Except for the smoking and drinking thing… but he didn't freak out over stuff either.

"Fine." Jonathan loosened the bear hug, but kept a good grip on Trip's wrist. "We should probably get back."

"Uh… Jon…" Dino had the look of someone who had something bad to say and didn't want to say it. Suddenly Trip knew what was coming.

_Just keep those assholes away from me._ Maybe he was no good as a hero, but he didn't read those comics anymore. Much.

"What?" Jonathan seemed suspicious too.

"I talked to the camp director… and… well… he says that there's not enough grounds or proof to send those two home. They all say it was an accident… they say that they didn't know he couldn't swim…"

"Bullshit!"

"…and they claimed to be on their way back to get help. I _know_ it's bullshit, Jon, but there's not a damned thing…."

"I am _not_ having those two in my cabin. There is no fucking way…" This time it was Jonathan shouting.

"Jon… they understand that. Kendricks said he'd take them… he doesn't see any problem with them… and he'll transfer a couple of his over to you."

"Great. He's starting his own fucking gang. Why don't we just supply them with weapons and let them get it over with?" Jonathan turned to Trip. "You're right kid… they _do_ get away with murder. I just don't fucking _believe_ this."

"Jon… I'm sorry." Dino looked away, embarrassed.

"How many more kids have to die?" Jonathan repeated his earlier question. "I thought we'd _learned_ by now. Even if _they_ don't kill somebody… how long until one of their victims has had enough? And either it's suicide, or… honestly, people give Trip here such a hard time, but at least he's got the morals only to hurt _them_. What happens when it's pushed too far… and somebody decides to take out the entire world?"

"Jon. You're preaching to the choir. _I _agree with you. But it's not my say. I'm getting the feeling… from what he said… that there's some politics involved here…"

"Lovely."

"It seems that Jones' father is fairly well placed in the British government… and the boy called home to complain…"

"Let me guess… _I'm_ the bad guy here." Jonathan shook his head. "Great."

"Fortunately you haven't got the rep for it. You've been the picture-perfect counsellor up until now… and the director's willing to forgive you and Kendricks as a moment of extreme stress. And since the 'trouble kid' didn't actually do anything to anybody this time…"

"How nice of them to let Trip stay, too." Sarcasm poured off every word. Either the painkillers were wearing off, or Jonathan was just too pissed off to remain dazed.

_Welcome to my world, _brother. How could Jonathan play big-brother when he was so goddamned naïve? _I coulda told you this would happen._ Bullies weren't bullies because they _didn't_ have power… they were bullies because they _did_. And _whatever_ power they had, they'd use – with no responsibility whatsoever. _And Dad thought I shouldn't waste my time with comics_. But even his favourite guys now… like Jonathan just said: they never took on the innocents. _But God help you if you're guilty._ It wasn't his safety he was concerned about… it was Malcolm's. And those assholes, if he ever managed to get a hold of them. _'He puts one of yours in the hospital, you put one of his in the morgue._' _The Untouchables_. Paramount Pictures, 1987. Starring Sean Connery, Robert DeNiro and Kevin Costner. Another one where Dad would have a heart attack if he knew Trip had seen it.

_I hate to break it to ya, Daddy, but violence is real_. And you couldn't blame the movies, either. Blaming the movies and the books was just an excuse… another way for the care-less to get away with it. _If I kill them, it sure as hell ain't Connery's fault_.

"Just… they better stay away. If I even hear…" Jon's jaw clenched tight and the words came out through his teeth.

"Jon. I doubt even _your_ connections would be enough…"

_Connections? What connections?_ Wasn't this just some geeky guy with a dumb-ass accent and a serious gullibility problem? _Who the hell are you connected to?_

"Yeah, well unlike _some_ people, I didn't plan to use them." Even as Jonathan spoke, Trip could see the genesis of an idea on the guy's face.

_What the hell is going on here?_ And why did it leave him with a sinking feeling that Jonathan was Up To Something?

# # # #

_I'm going to need more information._ After all, he didn't know what Trip _wanted_ to be when he grew up… or at the very least, got taller. _But I know what you've got an aptitude for… I've spent enough time around them_. He couldn't ask Trip, though… he wanted it to be a surprise. On the other hand, if the kid had no interest in Engineering… _I doubt you'd be all that impressed_.

_And I'm not going to promise anything until I get it set up, either_. Trip got enough disappointments in life… he didn't need any more.

They trooped out to the car, Trip stumbling more than once on the way. Poor kid was dead on his feet. _I might not be sleeping at night…but neither has he_. Add to that the physical strain of lifesaving and the continuing lack of sustenance… _I wonder if I should leave him here_. A night in the hospital might do Trip some good… but he'd probably just sneak out and head down to Malcolm's room, and Jonathan doubted the nurses would be too likely to let a twelve-year-old sleep on the floor.

By the time they made it back to the camp, Trip _had_ fallen asleep. Jonathan debated leaving him where he was for the moment, then decided against it. _We need to get you into bed_.

"Hey, kiddo." Jonathan shook him gently. It probably wouldn't make a good impression to carry Trip into the cabin this time – not if there was going to be an audience. Besides, between his arm, and the kid's weight… "I can't carry you this time. Let's get you to bed."

Trip mumbled something, but didn't open his eyes.

"Come on, kiddo. I hate to do this…"

Obediently Trip stumbled from the car, then sagged down to sit beside it.

_ Oh, man._ "I can't carry you, kiddo. You're too heavy." They'd warned him about putting too much strain on the arm and popping the stitches.

Trip placed both hands on the side of the car and heaved himself to his feet, but Jonathan could see it was a massive effort. He put an arm around Trip's shoulders, steadying him. He might not be able to carry the boy, but he could give him something to lean on.

"I promise, you can sleep in as late as you want – I'll even bring you breakfast in bed. Malcolm should be back tomorrow – unless his parents decide otherwise." Jonathan guided him around the car: Trip's eyes kept closing on him.

"They won't," Trip mumbled. "They don't even know he exists. F'anything his dad'll prob'ly say that Jonesy did good, chuckin' him in the water."

Jonathan tensed. _If it was _my_ kid…_ No wonder these two got along so well. _They both pretty much brought up themselves_. Not that he'd ever say that Trip's parents ignored him… _but you are expected to be a little adult at times, aren't you?_ Given Trip, it was probably over their protests, _but you still don't have normal kid issues_. Because of that, however; they'd both learned that life _wasn't_ fair… that it didn't always go your way, and how to deal with it.

_And to think, I thought that Trip didn't understand that_. He should have caught on that first night… didn't Trip say it straight out? 'Fair is a sunny day?' _I was the one who believed in fairy-tales_.

The two newcomers looked in askance when Jonathan and Trip came through the door. _We must make a sight_. With the arm of his shirt cut away, the stitched up bite was clearly visible, even if the blood had been cleaned off. Trip looked like hell, too: exhausted and mussed from his unscheduled swim.

"We'll worry about introductions later." Jonathan nudged Trip towards his bunk, and wasn't surprised when Trip fell into Malcolm's instead of climbing the ladder to his own. _It's probably safer, anyway_.

"Is Malcolm going to be okay?" Clearly the rest of the cabin had been told what had happened, at the very least as an explanation for the move. Kiprusoff's question did come as a bit of a surprise, however.

"They're just keeping him overnight for observation. He should be back tomorrow." He saw them still looking at him, expectantly. Obviously they'd heard about more than just Malcolm ending up in the water. "All right…" If he'd managed to learn _one_ thing so far, it was that these kids had better understanding than most people gave them credit for. He was exhausted himself, but they _did_ deserve more. "I'll answer your questions as best I can. I'm sorry if I don't make a lot of sense, but they gave me some pretty solid painkillers at the hospital… and it's left me a little out of it."

"How come you've got noodles on your shirt?"

Jonathan looked down at himself and laughed. "Food fight. I lost."

Several of the others looked at him oddly, though there were a couple of knowing smiles in the group.

"What really happened?" Apparently Kiprusoff was either serving as spokesman for the group, or he was the one most interested. "We heard Malcolm fell in the lake, and that you tried to beat up another counsellor."

Jonathan shook his head. "Malcolm was _thrown_ in the lake… Trip pulled him out. Which is why you'll notice the change in cabin assignments."

"Did you really try and beat up the Cabin Six counsellor?"

Jonathan blushed slightly. "I was extremely angry… but that's not an excuse. I shouldn't have done that. I just don't like bullies… and I'm just as human as the rest of you."

"Did he really bite you?" This from Lemaitre, who hadn't taken his eyes off of Jonathan's arm.

"Yes. But it's not that serious… and he had a good reason." Actually, he doubted Trip had been thinking at all – it was just pure desperation; a wild creature trying to get out of pain.

"Is _he_ going to be all right?" Kiprusoff nodded over at Trip who lay unmoving. "You said he pulled Malcolm out?"

"He needs rest. Yeah, he did… he saved Malcolm's life. But he's had training in that… and it was a pretty big risk." _I'm grateful it was you, kid… but I don't want someone who isn't as good a swimmer trying to be a hero_.

"Yeah… we almost lost the wrong one."

Surprisingly, Kiprusoff rounded on Arishamu. "He's not that bad… even if he can be a jerk. I mean I don't really like him… but I don't want him to die."

"Why? Because he said nice things about you at baseball?"

"Guys!" Jonathan stepped between them. _He can start a fight, even when he's fast asleep_. "Now, knock it off. I am _not_ going to have another one of those situations, do you understand? We're all tired, and we're all edgy… but I don't need… I won't _have_ anybody picking on anybody else… okay? Now if any of you honestly thinks that someone else here should die… then get your bags packed and get out now." Jonathan's voice grew icy, thinking about Trip and his depression. _He'd be happy to do it for you, guys… especially right now. And I don't need that._

Arishamu studied his shoes. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Well saying stuff you don't mean is one of the ways people get hurt. Even if _you_ don't mean it, someone might think you do. Remember the night of the rainstorm when I cancelled movie night?" He waited for them to nod, or otherwise acknowledge. They couldn't have forgotten… it was only a couple of days ago. "Remember that talk I gave you about accountability?"

Again there was a round of nods.

"Well, that's exactly what I'm talking about here. When you start saying things like that… you've got to think about where it's going to lead." He sighed. This was tricky ethical ground he was heading into, and he found himself wishing he could ask Malcolm for some advice. "I don't want to say that you _can't_ say things… I believe in the right to free speech… but consider the consequences _before_ you open your mouth. Think about who could get hurt, and if they really deserve it. You can't just say you didn't mean it and think that's okay."

"But you let _him_ get away with things all the time." Arishamu pressed his point. "He gets away with everything."

"Is that what you guys see?" Jonathan shook his head. _Forget _captain_, I couldn't even be a decent non-com._ "He doesn't get away with things… how do you think I let him…"

"He and Malcolm were out all night that night, and you didn't do anything."

Jonathan stepped back. "Fair enough… I can see how you'd think that. What happened is that you didn't _see_ me do anything. That doesn't mean I didn't."

"What about when he hit you? All you did was make him stay here… which was what he wanted anyway."

_All I want to do is get some sleep_. But he couldn't, not with these issues left unresolved. "I found out some things about that… and it put a different perspective on it. See… that's the other thing, guys. It sometimes helps to know _why_ a person does things…"

"Scared." The single word from Sanchez made everybody stop. Sanchez rarely spoke – he answered most questions with a yes or no headshake.

_Amazing_. "What exactly do you mean?" Jonathan had a pretty good idea, but wanted the others to hear it.

Sanchez just shook his head.

_Okay_. Now he wished he had either Malcolm _or_ Trip to translate for him. Either one of them was better at picking up on nuance. _Just another reason why you have an impossible dream_.

"But you said that being mad was no excuse for you to beat up the other counsellor, so how is his being scared an excuse for hitting you?" This one from one of the newcomers. "Besides, he does stuff like that all the time."

_Ah ha._ "And your name is?"

"Rodruigez. Chester Rodruigez. I go to school with him." The new kid looked over at Trip like a piece of sewage lay on the bed instead of a tuckered out kid. "He's always mouthing off to the teachers, or getting into fights. They let him get away with it, because he's the big, champion athlete… he shouldn't be here, he gets bad grades… but it was the whole chess club that got to come… we won the competition. It's not like he's even really a member of the club – he hardly plays anybody. He can't even keep the rules straight."

_Like hell he can't_. Jonathan was willing to bet that Trip knew the rules of chess better than anyone in the club. _But you expect him to be stupid, so he plays the part for you_. "Why isn't he smart?"

"Excuse me?" Rodruiguez looked lost.

"You just implied that he isn't smart." Jonathan could feel his temper bubbling up again: Trip's protective streak must have been rubbing off. "Why do you say that? What kind of evidence do you have…"

"All he reads is comic-books. And he takes mechanics classes… and like I said, he even gets bad grades there."

"And he's an athlete." Jonathan added the third leg of the triad. "Which by default makes him stupid. Tell me, what's a psychopath?"

"What?" Again the change in conversation seemed too much for Rodruigez to handle.

"It's a basic question. I just want a definition of a psychopath." Okay, so it wasn't fair… _but I don't see the sun shining, either_.

"I don't know." Rodruigez seemed to realise that he'd just walked into a trap.

"Funny, but _he_ knows. Not only that, but he knows lifesaving techniques, and he knows how to use chemicals safely, and he knows about the physics of a baseball pitch… That sounds pretty smart to me. That's what I'm talking about guys… calling somebody stupid because they don't get good grades or – heaven forbid – take mechanics classes? And some of the smartest people I know read comic-books… and that's not because I know stupid people. Do you think that words don't hurt?" He turned his gaze to Sanchez. "You're right. A lot of the nasty things people do, they do because they're scared." He turned back to Rodruigez. "But, if you keep picking on them, all they're going to do is be hurt, and get _more_ scared that you're going to hurt them more. Then sometimes they'll hurt you back. I'm not _asking_ you to be his friend. I'm just asking you to stop hurting him."

"But what about the stuff he says about us? He's always referring to us as geeks… and kiss-ups, and stuff like that?"

"That's not right either, and if I catch him saying it, he's going to catch hell from me, too. But _both_ sides have got to stop it. I'll have a word with him when he wakes up…"

"Like that will do any good. He gets in trouble for stuff all the time." Rodruigez made a face at the sleeping Trip.

"I know. And that's part of the problem." _Nobody takes the time to really talk to him anymore. They just yell at him, or give him detention, and assume he doesn't learn. But if they talked _to _him, rather than _at _him…_ _Look at the game_. Trading insults – like equals rather than senior to junior – and he'd started to open up…to listen. But take him head-on in a battle of wills…_ and you might as well sign your surrender papers right now_. "Just let me give it a shot, okay? I won't guarantee it'll last forever… it won't last at all if you guys don't pitch in too… but I think I can get you a truce.

"Because if there's one thing I bet these other guys have noticed… if you leave him alone, he'll leave you alone. As for when you can't… what did he say to you at the game, Kip?"

"He said I had good hustle." Kiprusoff looked a little confused at the question. "Why?"

"Because he also said you had a good eye. See, what I've noticed is that _everybody_ – and that includes Trip, too – is too busy focussing on the bad things, and not spending enough time looking at the good. But if you give them a chance – and maybe a little respect – maybe you'll find out they're not so bad after all."

"You wouldn't give the other two another chance," Arishamu indicated the bunks formerly occupied by Dutretre and Hong. "You were going to send them home entirely."

"That's because they crossed the line. Malcolm nearly _died_, guys. He had water in his lungs when Trip pulled him out. And they did nothing except walk away… they didn't even hit the alarm and give him a chance. And I _have_ given them second chances… more than one set." He could see discomfort settling on to all of their faces as they contemplated – perhaps for the first time – the thought of death. They probably hadn't been told that part… the part about how close it really came.

_Nobody talks to kids about violence and death… they don't want to scare them._ But if they didn't know the reality – that careless actions could end up killing someone – then what incentive did they have to stop? _You guys don't need that on your consciences for the rest of your lives_.

"See, that's just it, guys. If all they'd done was throw him in… then _done_ something about it… then I might have more sympathy for them… be able to accept it as a mistake. But they didn't do _anything_. They just walked away."

"Oh." Even Arishamu didn't seem able to defend that.

_Because there _is_ no defence._ "Like I said, guys… I don't promise to be able fix things and make everybody happy. But the last thing I need is another one of these incidents. People say you can't make it better by doing nothing… but sometimes you can. If you _don't_ take part… if you _don't_ contribute to the hurt… it does help. But as long as you even laugh at the jokes that someone else is telling…you're making it worse." He could see them thinking about it… considering the truth.

"Now, I hate to cut this short on you, guys, but I really need to get some sleep. Because I hate to break it to you, but us counsellors aren't specially engineered lifeforms. We're only human, like the rest of you. Not only that, but we're _old_." As hoped, the joke brought a few smiles. "So… um… talk among yourselves if you want, but please keep it down, for both of us, okay? I'm sure you guys know when Lights Out is by now… so I'm going to trust you to observe it." _Practice what you preach, Jon_. He could hardly ask them to respect him, if he didn't show them some too. Maybe expecting them to be able to put themselves to bed wasn't much… _but it's a start. It's a start_.

# # # #

_ And Mom said Camp would be a restful experience._ Trip rolled over and looked up at his own bunk. Why wasn't he in it? _Oh, yeah_. Because he hadn't been able to climb that high last night.

"Morning. Breakfast… just like I promised." He looked over to see Jonathan coming through the door, bearing a tray. "I've got you orange juice, eggs, hashbrowns, sausages… cereal…"

"Coffee." He wasn't hungry now, either.

Jonathan stopped dead. "Coffee? You want coffee?"

"Coffee." Trip repeated. "Preferably black."

"Coffee." Jonathan set the tray down on the bunk and stepped back. "I will go get you some coffee." The tone of his voice indicated that he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Thank you." Trip waited until Jonathan left then grabbed one of his shirts out of his duffle and shovelled a few forkfuls of food into the centre of it. He then bundled it up and shoved it deep underneath the bunk. _I'll take it out to the trash later… I never liked that shirt anyway_.

Jonathan returned with the coffee and seemed pleased at the disturbances in the food. "I'm glad to see you're eating again, kiddo."

Trip gave him his 'Aren't I a Sweet Kid' smile, and nodded. He took the proffered cup from Jonathan and sipped it. When he did, he almost gagged. _What do they do, keep the grounds in the freezer?_ It tasted like they used old oil filters too. _Frozen, boiled, filtered coffee. Just what I wanted._

"Not your taste, huh?" Jonathan grinned, like he'd been expecting Trip's reaction.

"Someone should explain to them that 'ground' does not mean 'mud.' You could strip paint with that stuff." Trip set the cup down and scraped his tongue against his teeth, trying to get the taste off.

"Oh. I didn't realise that you were a barista." The grin slipped a little, but held.

"I asked for coffee. _That_ is not coffee. _That_ is toxic waste." At least the debate kept Jonathan from noticing that Trip wasn't eating.

"Well, _we_ drink it."

"I can't be held responsible for your lack of intelligence. The perfect cup of coffee is made with freshly ground, freshly roasted beans that _haven't_ been over-roasted, and have _never EVER _been kept in the freezer – that destroys the oils. Then… the water. You can't just pull it out of the tap, boil it and chuck it in. You need fresh, _pure_ water, heated to between ninety-five and ninety-eight degrees centigrade. The water should move quickly through the coffee… it should not be allowed to sit and stew. And, _finally_, coffee should be drunk within twenty minutes of brewing – it should not sit for two hours on a hot plate or be reheated. This _garbage_ violates every single one of those rules. I'm surprised you still have stomachs." He'd gotten sick and tired of his parents arguing over who made the worse coffee, so had decided to learn how to do it himself. Like everything else, they decided to leave it in his capable hands from that point forward.

"Well, _forgive_ me for not knowing the chemistry of caffeine production. I will certainly try to do better next time around." Jonathan watched him expectantly, obviously expecting more food consumption.

_At least it's good for something_. He scooped up a mouthful of food and began chewing. Before he swallowed, he picked up the coffee and used the mug to hide behind as he spit the food into the murky liquid. _He'll never see it in there_.

"Hmn." Jonathan watched Trip put the mug down. "It's still never seemed all that bad to me. Want to see a trick?" He picked up the coffee mug. "I can see things in coffee. In fact…" He swirled the mug around, and the laws of physics created a centrifuge. "This one seems to contain even more contaminants than you imagined. That looks like egg… hashbrowns…and is that a bit of sausage I see?"

Trip glared.

"Nice try, hotshot, but not very original. I used to do the same thing with my broccoli – though I used milk – when I was eight. Now where's the rest of it?" Jonathan set the mug on the floor and crossed his arms.

Trip said nothing.

Jonathan sighed and sat down on the bunk. "Fine. Be that way." He picked up the glass of orange juice and held it to Trip's lips. "Now I know this probably isn't up to your discriminating Floridian standards, but it will have to do. Drink."

Trip kept his lips clamped shut. _Make me, jackass_.

"Okay." Jonathan wedged the rim of his glass between Trip's lips and tilted it. Orange juice ran into Trip's mouth and dribbled out the sides and onto his shirt. Jonathan reached over and pinched Trip's jaw in his fingers, opening it ever so slightly and poured a larger amount of juice inside.

Trip choked, then spat, catching Jonathan full in the face. The counsellor didn't even move, just sat there with orange juice dripping off his chin and holding the cup to Trip's mouth. "Try again."

_Fuck you_. The unspoken message beamed out through his eyes.

"We're not moving until you do. Your new roommates have enough concerns about your attitude without us having to inflict your low-blood sugar problems on them."

"Yeah, well they can kiss my ass. I don't care." The words came out through clenched teeth, and he could feel his eyes beginning to prick with tears. _They don't like me anyway._

"Trip… you're already in deep enough with one of them… and you weren't even conscious when you came in last night."

"Rodruigez. Yeah, I know the jackass." He still didn't open his mouth – he wasn't going to fall for that old trick.

"Yeah, well don't call him that. I've already _given_ him this lecture, so you can stop with the 'It's Always My Fault' look. You _both_ have a lot of ground to cover to meet halfway. Like I told him, I'm not asking you to do that… but I _would_ like to see a truce between you. No more insults… not even to other people. You want to take responsibility, Trip. Well _do_ so. Take the first step." Jonathan set the glass down on the tray and gave Trip a shake. "Stuff like what happened to Malcolm _starts_ with the words. Once you start treating a person as a lesser being… it becomes that much easier to do the rest. So stop it, okay?"

Trip lowered his eyes. _You don't have a clue. Ignoring it _doesn't_ work. It doesn't shut them up_. Sometimes the only way to stop someone from hitting you was to hit them back. _Whether it's fists or words_. He'd _tried_ ignoring it… back in the days when he couldn't say anything back without causing more ridicule. _They don't stop, because they don't have to _see_ it hurts – they _know_ it hurts._ You had to make them realise that you were just as dangerous – _more_ dangerous – and only then would they stop, or at least leave you alone. _You've never felt it… you just don't know_. And like talking to Rodruigez would make any difference. _There's still the rest of them._ The first few weeks he'd shown up at the club… they'd all gone off into their little cliques and ignored him. They _hadn't_ given him a chance. _But Dad said I had to go anyway… he said he'd check_. So Trip took to showing up and sitting in a corner, tweaking some micro-robotics. Ten weeks in he had a set that would play against him – the pieces moving themselves. Not that he ever let anybody see it – _they'd just make more fun of me._ 'Gearhead,' his other big nickname. The jocks called him that all the time behind his back – or in rare losing streaks, to his face.

_Not that it matters – I could beat the pants off of them anyway_. Even Dad thought that Trip hated chess because it was too hard, but the truth was that it was just too easy.

_Then I find something… and you've got to send me here_. Two weeks before he left, he'd been skating in the park and watching a pair of old Asian men playing a game with coloured stones. He'd ignored them at first, but slowly he'd seen that the game – as simple as it looked – was really quite complicated. They'd been a little surprised when he'd come over and sat down on his board to watch more closely. They didn't tell him to go away though… they just kept playing as though he wasn't there. After a while one of them asked if he was interested in playing.

_"What is it?" He stood up to get a better view of the board._

_ "It's called Go." One of the old men smiled, gently. "The idea is to gain as much territory as possible… and deny it to your opponent."_

_ Trip stared, fascinated. "Teach me."_

He'd spent every day in the park after that, sitting with the old men and learning how to play their game. And those guys were _good_, and they didn't go easy on him because he was a newcomer or he was a kid. That was one of the big reasons he'd fought against coming…he'd actually cried when he had to tell them he couldn't come back for the rest of the summer. Up until Malcolm, those two old men were the closest friends he'd ever had… and he didn't know them outside of Go. He knew some: he'd learned that Mr. Shigai had been a software technician and Mr. Hu an aerospace engineer. Mr. Shigai even knew more about movies than Trip, adding a new name to Trip's Directors of Distinction list: Akira Kurosawa. _They didn't look at the skater kid and tell me to go away_._ They didn't say I was too young… they didn't say I wouldn't be interested… _They'd looked past the skateboard and the surfer haircut – looked past the fact that he was only twelve and were willing to let him in.

"I already _gave_ them a chance." A rebel tear snuck out and down Trip's cheek. "_They_ blew _me_ off. Why should I give them any more?"

"I've given you more than one chance." Jonathan spoke slowly and gently.

"I never asked you to. I never even asked for one." Trip turned his head away.

"I know. But you've needed them, Trip. What makes you think you'll get through life entirely on your own?"

"What makes you think I'll need to? What makes you think it'll be that long a time?" He saw the words stung, as intended. _I don't want your second chances. I don't want your lectures on how I'm a good person and doing everything wrong, I don't want to be your friend because when summer's over you'll forget I ever existed._

"God, Trip. Don't do this, okay? Why can't you see that it's not a crime for people to care about you? Why do you have to keep pushing people away…"

"Because otherwise they'll do it first!" The words came out louder and angrier than he'd expected. "And only stupid people set themselves up to get hurt… and like you said, I'm not stupid. But… but… as soon as people realise that I'm diff'rent… nobody wants to _be_ my friend. The only friends I've got… got are a kid I put in the hospital and two old guys I met in the park. To everyone else I'm just some skater… skater-boy-gearhead-musclebrain-geekfreak."

"Trip, you didn't put Malcolm in the hospital. How many times do we have to go over that?" Jonathan shook Trip again, harder this time. "It wasn't you. And you don't know that people are going to abandon you…"

"They always do. It's al…always like that. Even my par…arents left me behind once. I was just li...ittle, and they left me." He couldn't stop himself, just fell into a full out crying-jag.

"I'm sure they didn't…"

"Yes, they _did _me..ean it. They said if I didn't…didn't hurry, they'd go with…out me. And… and they did… and I was just little. I didn't think…think they were coming back." He'd been so good for ages after that, afraid that if he wasn't he'd never see them again. He flopped down and turned his face to the pillow, half hoping he'd suffocate. _Everybody leaves_. Sometimes they couldn't help it… like Malcolm who'd eventually have to go back to his parents… but most of the time they decided that it simply wasn't 'cool' to hang out with Trip. _The only friends I've got are people who know that cool will never happen to them, or don't care._ Because Mr. Shigai and Mr. Hu had other things to worry about than a middle-school reputation, and Malcolm didn't even have the comfort of a geek-squad to hang with. _It's easier to never _be_ friends than to have your friends suddenly discover they don't like you._

And he couldn't do what a school counsellor once suggested – he'd been sent there for his anti-social behaviour – and try to fit in, because that would mean fragmenting himself. _I can't shut off my brain to fit in with the jocks… and I don't like a lot of what they talk about, anyway. And the geeks won't take me, because I'm a jock and a mechanic… and _nobody's_ into the same movies and books as me, except old guys like Mr. Shigai and Mr. Hu._ They – too – were the only ones who seemed to understand his responsibility to his siblings. _Everyone else laughs because I walk James and Lizzie home and cook dinner and look after them._ The jocks and the other mechs were the worst with that… acting like the ability to cook was somehow a non-macho trait. _It's not like it's hard; you just have to follow the directions_.

He listened to the sound of Jonathan collecting the tray and various other things, then fishing under the bunk – _yeah, lucky guess there, pal_ – for the rest of the food. He didn't move when the door closed. _Yeah, sure. They aren't going to leave_.

# # # #

"Where's Trip, sir? I thought he'd be coming with you." Malcolm scanned the hallway as though doing so would make Trip magically appear.

"He's… having a few problems. He still feels fairly guilty about what happened to you." Jonathan clearly wasn't telling the whole truth, but Malcolm was willing to let it go right now.

_Or not_. "Is he okay, sir? Because maybe you shouldn't have left him. One of the other counsellors or somebody could have come and gotten me." If Trip was bad and Jonathan left him… what would happen in the meantime? _Don't do anything rash._ Though from Trip, that would be asking a lot.

"There's some things I want to talk to you about." Jonathan took a deep breath and told him about Dutretre and Hong.

"I understand, sir. I wasn't expecting much if they've become part of Jonesy's circle. At least they are no longer in the cabin." Jonathan seemed surprised at Malcolm's reaction. _But he doesn't know the situation like I do_. "But what about Trip?"

"I don't think he's eaten a single thing since the day before yesterday." Jonathan looked away as they walked, obviously uncomfortable discussing such problems with a ten-year-old. Or maybe he just didn't want to burden Malcolm with any more.

'_He ain't heavy, he's my brother_.' "That's not a good sign, sir. Do you want me to talk to him? He might listen to me… especially if he's feeling guilty over what happened to me. It wasn't his fault, sir."

"He seems to think that if he hadn't let you be his friend that none of this would have happened."

"That's not true, sir. If he wasn't my friend, I'd be dead now, because Jonesy would have still thrown me in. And if Trip wasn't my friend there wouldn't have been anybody there to pull me out. I _should_ talk to him."

"That's why I came to get you, Malcolm. He won't listen to me… I'm hoping he'll listen to you. I think I've disappointed him again." Jonathan sighed. "I don't know what to do with him. I _hate_ playing favourites…"

"I understand, sir." He knew why Trip wouldn't listen to Jonathan: Jonathan didn't understand what it was like to be all raw edges. _Even the slightest thing hurts like fire_. You could either hide behind layers of shields, like Trip, or simply hide as Malcolm did. _You keep wanting to get through the layers, because you think there's someone special underneath._ But underneath was the same as the surface: a smart, creative, athletic person. _Not a bunch of traits bundled together, but a singular unit_. Trip was athletic _because_ he was smart and creative. He was creative _because_ he kept his mind and body active… _and being involved so much is what makes him so smart_.

_So many people don't understand that._ Smart wasn't the same as intelligent. _I'm intelligent… but I'm not smart. I don't see how things fit together – not like Trip does._ Smart was worse than intelligent, because at least intelligent could get you good marks. But since other people couldn't see what Trip could see… they didn't think he knew what he was talking about. _And then he gets frustrated… and that makes him mad_.

"Has Trip ever told you about what he wants to do when he grows up?" It sounded like Jonathan was desperately trying to change the subject.

"He _said_ he was thinking of being either an architect, or an engineer… but he doesn't think that will happen. He wants to go into Starfleet, but he knows his grades aren't good enough… and he doesn't know how to fix them. That's one of the things that really hurts him, sir. He knows he'll never be able to do what he really wants – even though he's smart enough to do it." He saw a smile forming on Jonathan's face and wondered why. _Do you know a way to change that?_

………………………………………………………………………………………………

They made a stop on the way back, Malcolm watching from the car in puzzlement as Jonathan went into an expensive coffee shop and came out a short time later with a thermal mug and two bags.

"Maybe these will help." Jonathan handed the mug and the packages to Malcolm. "Right now, I'm willing to try anything."

"Yes, sir." He opened one of the bags to find a pair of sandwiches; the other contained an assortment of dessert squares.

Jonathan sent him up to the cabin alone. "It might go better if I'm not there."

_Probably, sir_. Malcolm walked in to find Trip unmoving on the lower bunk. "Excuse me, but I think that's mine."

"Mal!" Trip turned over and sat up, and Malcolm could see that the other boy's eyes were red and swollen. "It's good to see you're okay, buddy."

"I'm fine. Oh, Jonathan said to give you this." He held out the mug, still at a loss to its contents. Jonathan wouldn't tell him, only saying that Trip would understand.

Trip took the mug and looked at it suspiciously. Finally he took the top off and sniffed the contents, then took a sip. "Jackass."

"What is it?" Malcolm assumed the comment was directed at Jonathan.

"Coffee. _Good_ coffee. We were talking about it earlier." Trip took another swallow, bigger this time.

"You drink _coffee?_" Malcolm had tried it once and found it bitter and impossible to stomach. _I'll stick with tea, thanks_. Coffee was one of those strange things adults developed a liking for, like alcohol and cauliflower.

"When it's made right. Keeps me calm." Trip drank a little more. "I _could_ get the caffeine out of soda – I guess – but then there's all that carbonation and sugar. At least this doesn't leach the calcium out of your bones. And my nerves have needed a little steadying." His hand shook spilling a bit of the dark liquid onto the bunk. "Shit! I'm sorry, Mal… I'll clean it up…"

"It's okay." Malcolm sat down beside his friend. "It won't show, anyway." Suddenly he remembered the bags in his hands. "I've got sandwiches and dessert stuff, too."

"Ya steal them?" A half-smile crept on to Trip's face.

"Not this time." Malcolm confessed. "But they look really good."

Trip sighed and opened the bags. "They do look good." He took one of the sandwiches and broke off a small piece of the bread. "But I hate to think that you wasted your money, Mal. I can't eat all of this… it wouldn't be good for me."

Malcolm nodded. "I know… but you can eat the bread, right? And it's not my money anyway… it's Jonathan's."

"Then I'm not so worried about wasting it." Trip sorted through the squares, looking for the blandest and least sugary. "Most people don't know stuff like that… they just try to feed you."

"The Americans did that to the concentration camp survivors in World War Two… and a lot of them died because of it. The ones that were rescued by the Russians did better… because the Russians had no food to feed them." He could tell Trip stuff like this, because Trip knew what it was like to know things that nobody else did, and wouldn't get insulted by it either.

"I didn't know that. I mean, they teach you in school that there was a war, and that Hitler was this really evil guy who killed a bunch of people for their religion and that England and the U.S. won – and we beat the Japanese by using the atomic bomb – but they don't tell you the details. I learned more by watching movies."

"_Judgement at Nuremburg._"

Trip's eyes lit up. "United Artists, 1961. Spencer Tracy, Burt Lancaster, Richard Widmark, Marlene Dietrich… That is one of the most amazing movies ever made. I mean it's not a fun movie… but it's compelling. I don't know anybody else who's ever seen it. Have you ever seen _Tora, Tora, Tora?_"

Malcolm shook his head. "No, I haven't." He'd never met anyone who watched old movies either. _Especially not ones as depressing as that_.

"Twentieth Century Fox, 1970. It was actually a Japanese/American co-production about the attack on Pearl Harbour. Almost two and a half hours long… but worth every minute. Mr. Shigai told me about it. It's a different perspective… but I learned more about 'other cultures' from that than I have at this camp. And at school all they teach you is that the Japanese – who were somehow 'different' than they are now – snuck up and bombed a bunch of ships docked in the harbour. They don't tell you that it wouldn't have been so bad had the Americans not screwed up so much. They ignored their own intel and assumed that it couldn't be happening. 'Those aren't really Japanese planes… somebody's made a mistake.'" Trip made a face. "I always wondered how they managed to sneak up in a fleet of aeroplanes. It wasn't like they had stealth technology or anything. And the Americans _did_ have radar. That's why I hate school."

"Do you get in trouble for asking questions?" Malcolm took a bite of the other sandwich. After hospital food, _anything_ would have tasted good.

Trip nodded. "All the time. The teachers don't like it when you ask things that you're not supposed to know. Like when I asked how come America stayed out of the war for so long when they knew that people were being slaughtered like that. And they _did_ know, but they ignored it. My teacher got mad and said that we didn't have time in the curriculum to discuss that… and could I try to pay attention to the lesson at hand."

"I get in trouble for questions like that all the time. My instructors are always telling me that I'm trying to humiliate my classmates." Malcolm sighed and took a bite from his sandwich again.

"From what I've seen, they do a good enough job of that on their own, just by breathing." Trip ate another small piece of bread.

"Who's Mr. Shigai? One of your teachers?"

"This old guy I met in the park. He's really cool." Trip must have seen the scepticism in Malcolm's face because he added, "It's not like that or anything. I'm learning to play Go."

Malcolm wrinkled his forehead. "Go?" He'd never heard of it.

"It's a really cool game. Complicated strategy… it can take hours, even _days_ to play out a good game."

"I play chess," Malcolm confessed.

Trip howled and hung his head. "Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. Just when I thought you were redeemable. Chess? Don't _tell_ me you waste your time with _that_."

"You just said you like strategy games." And wasn't Trip _here_ because he was a member of the chess club?

"Decent strategy games, yeah. Not chess."

"I could teach you," Malcolm offered.

Trip gave him a look. "Don't waste _my _time. Seriously… isn't there anything else you do in your spare time?"

Malcolm tried desperately to think of something that would make up for his being a chess player… "Well, I blew up some of my uncle's property, once."

Trip's jaw dropped. "No way."

Malcolm nodded. "I was doing some experiments… making gunpowder… and it was a little more potent than I expected."

A glazed look overcame Trip's eyes. "You know how to make gunpowder?" He said it very slowly, like he couldn't believe it.

"Yes. It's quite simple, really. Once you have the ingredients." After all, the Chinese came up with it millennia ago.

"You know how to make _gunpowder_?" More coffee spilled, this time on the floor as Trip's arm fell limp and a giddy grin infused itself on his features.

"Are you okay?" He hadn't quite expected this reaction.

"Hi." The grin grew wider. "I'm Trip Tucker and I'm your new best friend." Trip flung an arm around Malcolm's shoulders and pulled him close.

_Weren't we already?_ Suddenly he realised. Trip was impressed. Not just impressed, but overwhelmed. _About something _I_ did?_

"I have never actually managed to blow anything up in my life. My parents won't let me play with anything decent… they even took away my chemistry set when I was ten. Just 'cause I burned a few holes in the rug… but _gunpowder?_ And you actually set off an _explosion?_ God, Malcolm, that's the coolest thing I've ever heard in my life. You… you are the best. You are the greatest. _Gunpowder!_"

"I think my error is that I ground it too fine. The finer the grind…"

"The more surface area for a reaction and the bigger the boom. How much trouble did you get in?" And that was another thing, Malcolm realised. Trip judged the worthiness of a caper by the amount of punishment it was likely to engender.

"Not much. My uncle had been planning to do some landscaping there anyway. He told me that I should be more careful next time – because I could have been badly hurt or killed – and not to try and do something like that without him."

Trip flopped backwards on the bed. "I want your uncle. I would give _anything_ to have someone who'd help me with stuff like that. _My_ uncle… my dad's brother… still gives me things like toy cars – which would be okay, if they were working or even just scale models – but they're not. And he calls me things like 'Chucky-boy' and 'Tripster', and I can't _stand_ that. Last time he came over I went and hid out at school for a while. Boy did my dad give me hell for that; said it was extremely 'rude' of me. Like Uncle Harry isn't rude to me, all the time. Like when I was watching this old docu – it was about how they built that Iron Bridge in England – and he switched it over to a basketball game and when I was gonna complain, said that 'kids aren't interested in stuff like that, are they Chucky-boy? I bet you'd rather watch something with a little excitement, huh?'" Trip's voice took on a nasal, droning quality as he mimicked his uncle. "I _like_ seeing how things were built back in the old days. I mean they didn't have laser levels, or power-cranes or even welding equipment… but they put stuff together that _lasted_. And a lot of the time they were doing something nobody'd ever done before, so they had to work out a way to do it." Trip's lips pursed. "I hate my uncle. He's a moron."

"Do you mean the Cast Iron Bridge in Shropshire? I've seen that. It's the first one ever made… it's a historical artefact." This time Malcolm saw a flash of jealousy on Trip's face.

"You've been there and _seen_ it? I would _love_ to see something like that. Instead, all I get is an uncle who thinks that _basketball_ is better quality viewing than educational programming." Trip stuffed another piece of bread in his mouth and spoke around it. "And people wonder why I have problems."

"I could tell you how to make gunpowder. The biggest problem is getting the chemicals. They're not readily available anymore… not with recyclers replacing the old waste disposal methods. Basically you need potassium nitrate – saltpetre – sulphur and charcoal. But it's very dangerous. The earliest references – in Chinese texts – basically outline it as something to _avoid_ doing. If you try to grind it while it's dry… it will explode on you. I didn't even have that much… and I was thrown over ten feet." Malcolm realised that teaching Trip how to make gunpowder might – in actual fact – _not_ be all that smart a move.

"Nah… it's _your_ thing… I don't want to take it from you. I'm the builder, you're the weapons guy. Y'know, I wonder what those guys would think if they realised that they're mucking with an expert in mass destruction."

"I'm not that knowledgeable." As usual Trip had managed to go overboard with an idea.

"C'mon. _You're_ the one who told me how things in that movie were so unrealistic… that the cannons were all wrong. You know more about weapons than I know… than I know about movies. I wonder if we could build a cannon."

Malcolm shook his head. "The materials would be a little hard to get a hold of… we'd have better luck with something simpler… like a trebuchet."

"A trebu-what? I don't _like_ simple, Mal." Trip sat up again and made a face.

"Trebuchet… it's a French style catapult. And it's only more simple in a combustive sense… it actually has more moving parts than a cannon." _Which is why I haven't built one yet… I can't get all the parts_.

Trip's scowl gave way to a smile. "Well, I _do_ like moving parts in a machine. What do we need?"  
"Do you really want to try?" Malcolm tried not to let himself get too excited. _It'll all come apart when he realises it's too complicated_.

"Well, it's better than anything _else_ this place has come up with. And Jonathan _is_ expecting an Arts and Crafts project from us… what can be better than something crafted for the art of war?" Trip rubbed his hands together. "Now how does this trey-bu-shay…" the Southern accent turned an elegant French word into mush, "actually work? What do we need?"

"Well, it's essentially a counterweight catapult. We'll need to build a stand for the throwing arm… a weight bucket and a sling. The biggest danger is the triggering mechanism. You need some way to trigger it while you stand far enough away so you don't get hurt. After all, it _is_ a siege weapon…they used to use them to knock down fortifications."

"And toss dead sheep over as biological warfare." Trip looked a little sceptical at that.

"Dead soldiers, in some cases." Malcolm confirmed. "After all, if the sheep hadn't been spoiled, it was still good for rations, but the soldiers weren't good for much of anything."

"Gross!" Trip yelled. "I mean can you imagine sitting there behind the walls and some dead guy comes flying in your face? I think I'd rather a spoiled sheep."

"Well, if they were decomposing, they would smell about the same…" Malcolm found himself enjoying the look of discomfort on Trip's face.

"D'you mind? I've just eaten for the first time in two days. My stomach is not in the best of shape… and you're talking about decomposing corpses as you eat a ham and turkey sandwich. I mean they're okay in the movies if they're zombies… but ewww." Trip pulled himself away to the corner of the bed. "You're sick, man."

Malcolm couldn't help it, he just started to laugh. "We're just talking and you're having a fit. You'd make a horrible soldier. I mean… the things soldiers sometimes have to do… I've read stories about how they're talking to a guy one second, then turn to him and the whole top of his head is just gone…"

"Ohhh." Trip flopped over again, this time on his side. "And to think I said you didn't know anything about crazy and nasty. Remind me never to get on your bad side… I don't want to wake up with some dead guy flying through my window. We have _got_ to do this, Mal. This could be the greatest thing I've ever built."

"_You've_ ever built?"

"Well, I'll admit… I can't do it without you… you're the one who knows exactly what we're building… I'm just the guy who'll figure out how to make it work. Oh, Mal, this is going to be _amazing_."

_I just hope we get away with it_. Still, any risk was worth it to see his friend happy again. _And if Trip's happy and eating… I don't think Jonathan will try to stop us._


	12. Intelligence

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the main characters. This is for entertainment purposes only… I don't make any money this way… which is why I have 40 hour work weeks which do not involve any computer access (sigh).

**Author's note**: Thank you, all of you, for your patience. I have been house-sitting with no computer for the past week or so… which means all my writing must be done by hand then transcribed into the computer in the short time I have at home... and this is to continue for another couple of weeks. (This is in _addition_ to the 40 hour work weeks described above). As for your question Drogna (given your comment, I'm sure you're reading this one): I think it has something to do with an attention deficit. If I do more than one story at once, I don't get bored… and I can use all the ideas that I come up with that won't work in one story… but might in another. While I _can_ hyper-focus… it's usually only for a short period of time. Then I need something new.

**Chapter 12: Intelligence**

_This is going to be interesting_. Never before had Jonathan faced a Visitor's Day with quite this level of complication to it. While every year had one or two no shows, one likely non-appearance this time wasn't liable to spark a flood of tears: Malcolm would probably be more surprised if his parents came. But Jonathan would still have to mollify parents panicked that their child's welfare was in danger – _and_ try to figure out how much to spill to Trip's parents.

_After all, how much of it do you already know?_ It was one thing for _Trip_ to assume that his parents were clueless, and another entirely for Jonathan to do so.

Remarkably, Trip showered, changed and went to breakfast with the rest of them, even taking the time to eat something. And his shirt – unorthodox as it was – certainly could be seen as appropriate.

**PARENTAL ADVISORY** the words screamed in bold black on white. **May contain coarse or explicit language not suitable for younger listeners.** Jonathan burst out laughing when he saw it.

"Nice, hotshot, very nice." Jonathan reached over and placed a mug on the table in front of Trip then picked up the carafe he'd brought. "For you, m'sieu." He poured coffee into the mug with a flourish.

Trip picked up the mug, studied it for a moment then sniffed. He took a sip and held it in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. "It's still that frozen, filtered crap, but at least it hasn't been congealing on a hot-plate for two hours. It'll do."

The other campers stared at Trip in shock, save Malcolm who already knew and Sanchez who held his own cup out. Jonathan blinked for a moment then poured some for him, too. "Anyone else?" A round of headshakes answered him.

"How can you drink that?" Kiprusoff couldn't seem to decide which was more fascinating – Sanchez or Trip.

Trip picked up his mug and pointed to it. He took a deep draught and swallowed. "Like that."

_I should have him checked out. He's acting normal_. This _was_ an overnight change, and a hundred and eighty degrees at that.

"Well, that explains your stunted growth," Rodriugez snickered.

Trip turned calmly to face him, and inwardly Jonathan groaned. He knew that look – the one that came right before the pointed insult. _Don't do it, kid… please don't._

"This," said Trip, slowly, "coming from the person who drinks more colas in a single afternoon than I do coffees in a week. At least I am not consuming enough sugar to support a small nation. In fact… there is probably less health risk in drinking this than in ingesting a substance that will dissolve a nail in twenty-four hours."

Rodriugez turned to Jonathan. "You said…"

"I said I'd give him hell if he called you names. I _won't_ give him hell for stating facts." _Especially since he was only responding to _your_ crack, _"Provided that they are indeed facts."

"I have personally observed the consumption of no less than fifteen colas in three hours, or roughly one cola every twelve minutes. Further… tests have proven that the acid content of the average cola _is_ sufficient to cause severe corrosion and/or dissolution of metallic objects in as little as twenty-four hours." Jonathan could tell that Trip was deliberately choosing the most complicated words he could think of.

_Atta boy. They can't keep calling you stupid if you don't act like it_. At the same time…

"Hey." Jonathan blinked in surprise as a spoonful of soggy cereal hit him in the chest.

"Um…" Jonathan looked over at Trip, from whose spoon the cereal had originated.

"Sorry… just checking something." Trip's brow furrowed and his lips moved silently. Straining to hear, Jonathan just caught the words "… wasted energy."

"What the hell is going on here?" Jonathan realised that Trip was no longer paying attention. Instead the kid was using his knife to carve something into the table.

"Excuse me, but…" Jonathan reached over and plucked the knife from Trip's hand. "Does coffee have some strange effect on you that I should know about?"

Trip continued his work using a tine of his fork. Jonathan confiscated it, and the spoon as a precaution. Undeterred, Trip dragged his finger across the jam on his toast and set to work with it.

"Ground Control to Tucker. We appear to be having communications problems. Come in, Mr. Tucker." If Trip wanted to be treated as normal, then he certainly needed work on his habits. But the look on his face… Jonathan had only ever heard that look described. According to Henry, Zephram Cochran would get the same one on occasion: so engrossed in an idea that the rest of the universe might as well not exist. _Hyper-focused_.

"He got kicked out of chemistry class for that." Rodriugez sounded smug. "He started using acid to mark something in the table. Said he ran out of space in his notebook."

_And rather than turn the page…_ oh, yes, Trip had a future in Engineering all right. Even Henry – as down to earth as the guy could be – had a habit of giving impromptu physics lectures over dinner, using whatever materials were at hand.

"Which is weird too… because he's into electronics and all that… but he uses pen and paper in chemistry class. He's just strange."

"Actually… that's smart, too." At least _that_ was a habit Jonathan had background in. "Given the fact that you're working with various chemicals… they're more likely to damage a pad in the event of a spill than they are to damage paper. And paper can be used to stem the tide of a spill, preventing it from causing even more damage."

"Oh." Apparently Rodriugez had never seen it that way.

_But this is weird even for you, kid_. Trip seemed to be making some sort of sketch on the table, but Jonathan couldn't make out what it was. _Grape… possibly_.

Trip stopped drawing suddenly and stared out at an unknown distance – possibly beyond the reaches of the universe. His jaw shifted back and forth and his fingers twitched in mid-air. Then, as suddenly as the mood arrived, it passed, and he returned to the land of the camper. "Sorry… did you say something?" He dipped his napkin into a glass of water – Jonathan's glass – and cleaned the jam from his finger and then from the tabletop.

Jonathan pointed to the damp spot on his chest. "What inspired…"

"Efficiency calculations." Trip shrugged with one shoulder. "You were the biggest target and I didn't want to miss."

This sparked a round of laughter from the table, though whom it was directed at, Jonathan couldn't be sure. _But I didn't spend my life around engineers and this much time around you without learning _something… "Efficiency calculations for what?"

Trip shrugged again, this time on both sides. "A heavy calibre weapon."

Malcolm began to choke on something, distracting Jonathan from his next question. Jonathan smacked him hard between the shoulder blades a couple of times until he began to breathe. "Are you okay, Malcolm?"

Malcolm nodded, still out of breath. Across the table, Trip innocently munched his cereal, tilting the milk-filled bowl to his lips as though it were soup.

_I could yell at him for his table manners, but he'd probably just remind me that I took his cutlery away._ Plus, Trip _was_ eating, and Jonathan didn't want to jinx it. Still… _I wonder what prompted this?_ It couldn't just be the impending visit from his family – that would be way too simple for Trip. And surely he couldn't _really_ be planning to build a high calibre…

_This is _Tucker_ we're talking about. It's possible._ Jonathan narrowed his eyes and stared at Trip, looking for some indication that the boy was joking.

"Is there a problem, Jonathan?" Trip lowered his bowl and delicately licked a few stray traces of cereal from his upper lip. "I apologise, but I find it difficult to consume the bulk of the milk neatly if I use a spoon."

_Now I _know_ you're pulling something on me._ The words and the ultra-polite tone served as dead giveaways as to Trip's ulterior motive. _You're back to driving me crazy again, aren't you?_ "How heavy a calibre are we talking?" He kept his voice casual, playing along.

"Well, that will depend – of course – on the available materials. It's still in the design phase at this moment."

"You'll have to let me know when it's completed." Jonathan relaxed. It was one of _those_ things, then… a long term project… a fantasy.

"Believe me," Trip smiled. "I'm sure you'll be one of the first to know."

"I look forward to it." Oh well, if it kept Trip's mind busy, it couldn't be that bad. And there were other things to worry about in the meantime. Like parents, for instance.

# # # #

_How can you just tell him that?_ Malcolm choked as Trip casually blurted out their plans. Didn't the older boy understand that what they were doing fell into the category of _verboten_? Sure it had sounded good yesterday, but today Malcolm had some doubts. Jonathan smacked him hard a couple of times, obviously figuring that Malcolm had merely swallowed wrong. _And how can _you_ be so clueless?_ _Haven't you already dealt with him enough to know he's not joking?_ Trip didn't seem concerned in the least, drinking his cereal in an elegant solution to Jonathan's commandeering of his spoon. Even when Trip confirmed the fact that they _were_ indeed designing a weapon, and that it _wasn't_ a joke, Jonathan didn't seem concerned.

_I don't believe it! He really _isn't_ going to stop us._ Of course, Jonathan didn't sound like he believed in the project at all… He also sounded very distracted.

_You are the luckiest person on the planet, Trip_. Trip would probably tell him that you make your own luck… then again that was more a Stuart Reed line than a Trip Tucker one.

_I hope Jonathan isn't expecting my mother and father to be here_. He could tell from the chatter that most of the other campers anticipated the arrival of family gladly. _But the only reason Mother and Father would show up would be to take me home_. Silently he prayed that they _wouldn't_ come… as he'd written to Aunt Sherry in his last letter home – it was easier than writing to his parents – he was beginning to enjoy himself. _Don't have told Father that, Aunt Sherry, please. He _will_ take me out of here if he finds out._

"Hey, Reedy. You wanting to see Mummy and Daddy?" Jonesy's voice echoed from three tables away. _And Kendricks will probably say it was a polite question_.

"Actually…" Malcolm turned to face him, not believing in the slightest that he was doing it. He felt like he was possessed… and that the possessive spirit had the name Tucker. "…I doubt that they shall be attending." How could he _be_ so calm, staring down the face of death? "However, I fail to see why that should cause me hardship. Perhaps you should address your own issues of dependency." And where did _those_ words come from?

"Wanker." This seemed to be Jonesy's final response, because he returned to shovelling his breakfast into his mouth.

"Whoa, Mal. That was awesome." Trip reached across the table and grabbed Malcolm's hand, shaking it vigorously.

"Um… I only hope I didn't provoke him." Malcolm looked over at Jonathan, wondering if he'd violated the counsellor's rules of avoidance.

"Are you kidding? That was great. He couldn't even get together a comeback," Trip enthused.

"If you have any trouble with him, you come straight to me." Jonathan seemed to have a better grasp of the possibilities than Trip.

"Yes, sir." Malcolm could see the disappointment in Trip's eyes at the answer, but he knew it would be the best course of action. _If only because I don't want Jonesy killing _you. _He's bigger than you are…and he's a good fighter._ Malcolm knew – had spent enough time learning how to hide bruises and ignore pain. And he knew that Trip cared so little for his _own_ life at times that he'd gladly sacrifice it for somebody else. _And I can't let you do that… especially not for me_.

"Don't worry." Trip finally released him and sat back. "I've got enough family… you can share some." Trip obviously didn't even entertain the possibility that his family wouldn't come.

"Well, I hope they show… I mean this is _your_ family after all." Apparently Rodruigez couldn't resist the opportunity for a dig, either.

"Absolutely. Which is why they'll be here." Trip shot back, loftily. "Unlike some of us… who can't remember their own brother's names… my family actually loves me." Rodruigez blinked and looked angry.

"Hey!" Jonathan reached across the table and snapped his fingers under Trip's nose. "I don't want to hear _any_ of that, do you understand me?"

Trip pulled back, staring wide-eyed at Jonathan.

"Now, apologise. Right now."

"No." Trip mumbled it, but it came out clearly enough.

"Right now, Mister."

"No!" Trip shoved backwards, causing the entire bench to tip. There was a dicey moment when it looked like everybody on his side of the table would end up on the floor, then Trip scrambled away from the table. "I _won't_! 'Cause it's _true_!"

"Tucker…" Jonathan's voice was heavy with warning.

"_No!_" This time it came out as a scream, and everybody turned to watch. Trip turned and ran, and by the time Jonathan stood up to give chase was already out the door.

"What is his _problem_?" Jonathan stared after him, still standing.

"I told you. He's like that." Rodruigez didn't seem to recognise that he'd just caused damage. Or maybe he didn't care.

"You were mean to him first." Malcolm didn't even realise he'd spoken until everybody turned to look at him. "You must know that he's very close to his family… yet you implied that they wouldn't come." He turned to Jonathan. "Then you demanded that _Trip_ apologise, but you didn't ask the same thing of Chester. He's very sensitive to double standards – I thought _you_ knew _that_."

"And I knew it was too good to be true," Jonathan muttered. "That kid's got more spikes than a porcupine."

Suddenly Malcolm had enough, too. "Well, maybe he's right." He stood up, ignoring Jonathan's shocked look. "I don't believe I'll be able to finish my breakfast, sir. I'm not feeling well myself." With that, he turned to follow Trip.

He found Trip out at the log, curled up in his 'thinking position.' Trip appeared agitated, rocking back and forth despite the insecurity of his chosen seating. He looked up at Malcolm's approach, his eyes full of panic. "They _are_ coming, right? I mean, they have to. They wouldn't just abandon me for the whole summer… would they?"

"I'm sure they wouldn't. Abandon you, I mean." Malcolm realised he'd better identify which question he was answering. "From what you've said, your family doesn't seem the type to do that… I'm sure they'll be here." He paused for a moment, then added, "I told Jonathan off. He could have been more even-handed about things."

"Really?" Trip stopped rocking for a moment. "Good. 'bout time somebody did that. And to think I started to believe the guy, too. Good ol' Jonny Fairplay and all his speeches… but he's just like everybody else. As soon as the cards are on the table, it's 'Blame Trip.'" He resumed his rocking, agitated again. "Sometimes… sometimes I worry that something will happen to them… and I'll never see them again. Until I met you… my family's pretty much all I got, Mal. And even then… sometimes….sometimes it's just Lizzie on my side. And she's too little for people to listen to. Hell, sometimes I don't even bother saying I didn't do it, even… even when I _didn't_ do it because no one'll believe me. And it _is_ true about Chester – he's got brothers and sisters he doesn't even know because his family didn't stay together." Trip wiped away a tear. "Maybe… maybe I should address my own issues of dependency."

"You're not dependent, Trip. You… you look after your brother and sister, so you care about them." Malcolm hoped it was a good answer, even if it wasn't the right one.

"If they don't come…" Trip looked at him, oddly. "What does it feel like, Mal? Being dead and all."

"Horrible." Malcolm lied. He couldn't remember any of it – the doctors assured him that was normal, but he didn't want Trip to know that. _I don't want you thinking it's an option._

"You know, I've never really considered drowning. Maybe because I'm such a good swimmer and all, I've never thought it would work."

"Trip…"

Trip didn't seem to hear. "I mean… you gotta… you gotta make sure you do it right, 'cause you might not get a second chance."

"Do you think about it a lot?" Malcolm realised that his best chance might be to keep Trip talking. _I can't take it to Jonathan now –, his credibility is gone. And I can't ignore it, either, because he clearly needs to talk._

"Enough. I'm twelve years old, Mal, and I've got this reputation I'll never be able to shake. Hell, breakfast proved that. I was _tryin'_, Mal, I really was… and the second it goes where he doesn't want… bang! And what is the average lifespan now? One, one-ten? I'm _twelve_, I can't hold out that long. And no matter how hard I try…there's always gonna be guys like Chess around to hang on my feet while my head's in the noose. Didja know that in Japan suicide is considered a way to regain lost honour? That if you shame your family it's considered the right thing to do? I've sure done that…"

"Trip…"

"Imagine your least favourite person in the whole wide world." Okay, that was easy: Jonesy.

"Now… imagine that you gotta live with this person all the time, 24-7. You absolutely _hate_ him, Mal… you can't stand being around him for a second. Now imagine that person is you."

Malcolm started to cry. He _couldn't_ imagine it… no matter how bad things were… he could never imagine _wanting_ to die. "But you're not that bad a person, Trip… you're a good person. Really."

"No I'm not." Trip was crying now too. "I'm _not_ a good person. You heard Chess back there, talking about my family. People see me – they see my family… they expect Lizzie and James to be like me. I've screwed up their lives before they even have had a chance."

"But it'll be worse for them, if you die. Then… they might think it was _their_ fault." He'd thought that himself, when his grandfather died… and _that_ had been natural causes.

"I know… what do you think's stopped me so far? I never want to hurt them. But I keep looking down this _forever_ that's in front of me… I don't know how much strength I've got left." Trip took a deep breath. "I… I shouldn't even be bothering you with this, Mal. It's not your problem… and you're no older than James is. _That's_ how good a person _I_ am… I mix little kids up in things that _grownups_ won't even talk about."

"I don't mind, Trip. I'm not a normal kid, anyway. I… I read a lot of things that even grownups don't try to… and I know what it's like to be alone… which most people don't." He tensed his jaw, so his teeth wouldn't chatter and give away his fear. "So you can talk to me about it all you want. I'll listen… I won't ignore you."

Trip lowered his head to his knees. "I've thought about all sorts of different ways… hangin's tricky because you gotta get the drop just right… too much and you'll take your head right off… which would be a son-of-a-bitch for someone to clean up… too little and you slowly strangle… and someone might find you and stop you. It's not easy for a kid my age to get pills… at least not enough to be able to do myself in with. I could use a knife… but that's easy to get wrong too. I mean if you miss the veins but destroy the tendons… you can't use that hand to try on the other wrist… and the femoral's not that easy to find with all that muscle and all. I don't think I could jump off a high building… I'm too scared of heights. I think the easiest would be something like… carbon monoxide or something… but you don't find that much anymore these days. I've considered rigging something up for smoke inhalation… but it takes time and someone might stop me again. I suppose I could _try_ dodging the cops and put myself in front of a mono-rail. But the stupid truth is that I just don't have the guts to do it in public. I'm pretty much down to electrocution, or something like that." He looked up, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "Or maybe I could mix some chemicals… like chlorine and ammonia or something and breathe in that. It'll hurt… but sometimes I wonder if you're just being cheap if you pick something painless. I mean the whole point of capital punishment is _punishment_, right? It shouldn't be easy."

"I don't believe in capital punishment." Malcolm stated firmly. He'd never really thought about it before, actually, but if Trip thought it applied to him, then Malcolm was definitely against it.

"Neither do I, really, but sometimes… sometimes it really makes sense… like if a person is helplessly incorrigible…"

"But _you're_ not, Trip. Like you said, you _tried_. It's not your fault that Chester is an idiot and Jonathan is a hypocrite. Just because _they_ can't make the effort, doesn't mean that _you're_ the bad guy. You _saved_ me… I don't think Chester would do that… but _you_ did." _Which means that I owe you the same. No matter what it takes – you wouldn't let me die… so I can't let you die either._

# # # #

_Ouch_. Jonathan watched Malcolm walk away, feeling his own stomach beginning to tie in knots. _Trip's_ outburst was somewhat expected and familiar… but the cold anger radiating from Malcolm was something else. That was _not_ the same kid that walked into the camp afraid to question anything. This new Malcolm went straight for the deadly targets, shooting to kill. _And he's right… isn't he, Jon? You give Trip a whole lecture about fairness… then jump on _only _him __when the fight starts._ He'd been _trying_ to counter the image that he favoured Trip over the others… _and now I've alienated the one person who had my back_.

"Do you guys think he's right? Do you think I was too harsh?" Jonathan dropped back down to the bench, feeling defeated.

"No…" Rodriguez was drowned out by the others.

"It wasn't _entirely_ fair… I mean, some of what Chester said _was_ unfair." Kiprusoff laid his hands on the table, palms up. "I mean, Trip did overreact, but you might have told both of them…"

"But what Trip said was worse…" Arishamu argued. "He said that Chester's family didn't…"

"…and Chester implied the same thing about Trip's family… and he did it first." Like Kiprusoff, Lemaitre seemed to have taken Jonathan's lecture to heart. "You did say that it's _everybody's_ responsibility.

_And now for the class in advanced ethics_… Jonathan listened to them, realising how much he had to learn. _These may be kids… but they're smarter than most people give them credit for_. "Well… what do you think I should do about it? Because, I'm lost here, guys."

"Why did you do it that way?" Kiprusoff asked.

_Because I was tired of the fighting… because I was frustrated that we couldn't even get through breakfast with out it_._ Because my arm hurts like hell, and that makes me irritated._ "Maybe because I saw things… I saw the words only, not what was beneath them. And with everything you guys said to me about treating Trip specially… I didn't want to add to that. Because you're right… fair is fair."

Sanchez shook his head.

Jonathan sighed. "What? 'Fair is a sunny day?' Or you think I wasn't being fair?"

Sanchez nodded.

_Okay, but to which question_?

"Well… you could try explaining it. It sometimes helps to know _why_ someone does something. My parents never just say I can't do things… they tell me why it's not good. Then I know that they're being reasonable… not just stopping me from having fun." Kiprusoff finished his breakfast and laid his knife and fork neatly side by side across the plate. Of all of them, he had the most impeccable table manners, and was challenged only by Malcolm for supremacy on the neat bunk front.

_And you're reasonable as hell, too. _This kid's future probably lay somewhere in the arbitration or diplomatic fields. _Or maybe he'll be a psychiatrist, God forbid_.

Jonathan nodded, soberly. "I can only give it a shot. You know… I _do_ appreciate your honesty, guys. I know I've hardly been the ideal counsellor… you've actually all been very patient." He _did_ appreciate it, and realised that he couldn't take it for granted that they understood that. _Communication, Jon… isn't that the major problem here?_ They had classes at the Academy _devoted_ to the art of communication… and he'd been dreading them as a major potential bore, but suddenly he realised how much he had to learn. _After all… dealing with aliens could be even trickier…you might want to avoid some of these pitfalls_.

Most of them nodded in response, and a couple of them smiled.

"Right… now, your parents should be here soon… so you're going to want to get washed up… and get the food out of your teeth."

"You want us to scare them?" Lemaitre grinned suddenly, a near Tuckerish gleam in his eyes.

"If a neat child is scary… then yes. And since we've already established that I'm less than fair… no arguments on the point, 'kay?" The table cracked up, drawing stares again. Even Sanchez smiled slightly… a near miracle for him. _Now if only I can get back the other two._

…………………

Surprisingly most of the parents had few concerns. They asked a couple of questions about the incident… most were simply relieved that their own children hadn't been involved on either side. Mrs. Rodriugez had been concerned about the fact that her son had to bunk with that 'unholy child,' but didn't seem inclined to make too much fuss. There were no Reeds in the pack, but that had been expected too. What wasn't…

_I _hope_ they're coming…_ Jonathan stared at Mr. and Mrs. Lemaitre's backs as they headed off in search of their child, feeling ice trickle down his spine. What would happen if they didn't? Would he…

"Jonathan Archer?" A woman's light voice distracted him, her accent sounding like that of an angel.

"Yes, that's me. Jonathan." He turned to see a late-arriving couple walking up the lane, a small blond boy hanging onto his father's hand. The boy stared around in calm wonder… but had none of the overload of energy that Jonathan associated with Trip. A tiny pink T-shirt dangled from the woman's hand – while the man appeared worried, her face was the picture of calm. "Are you Mr. and Mrs. Tucker?"

The man smiled wryly. "Is it that obvious? I apologise for being late, but we've had an incident…" as he spoke, he scanned the area, obviously looking for something.

The woman extended her hand. "Call me Fiona. And this is my husband Charlie, and our son, James. You've already met our eldest, Trip, and the 'incident' my husband refers to belongs inside this." She raised the T-shirt, her eyes sparkling.

"No longer a squirrel?" He couldn't help it… the image of a little girl in a tree came back unbidden.

"No… thank goodness. You heard, then."

Jonathan nodded. "Do you think we should…"

"Is it really that dangerous around here? Elizabeth has an uncanny ability to locate her brother." Her eyes lit on something in the distance. "Which, it would appear, that she's managed to do even now."

Jonathan turned to see Trip and Malcolm coming towards them, Trip carrying a small, shirtless, blond little girl. "I take it…"

"I believe I mentioned that you should grasp something a little more solid than her clothing, Charlie," Fiona said, with a hint of amusement.

Trip reached them and extended his hand. "If I may…"

Fiona handed him the T-shirt and Trip quickly re-dressed his sister. "Mom, Dad, this is Malcolm. I know you probably thought he didn't really exist… but he does. Malcolm, this is Mom and Dad."

"I'm pleased to meet you." Malcolm shook hands with both Trip's parents.

"Hey, Jamesy. You want to come with us? I bet you need to use the bathroom, right? Come on, I'll take you." Trip reached out his hand to James, who took it eagerly.

"Just a moment, young man." Trip's mother pulled a pad out of her purse. "One of your fellow campers met us earlier… he said he found this lying around. She turned it on, displaying images that Jonathan would have had trouble believing were it not for previous experience around engineers. 'Comic book' _was_ an appropriate term, given the layout, but it was _not_ a child's comic. "Would you care to explain this…"

"Well… Dream has been captured and is being held prisoner… which is having some seriously bad effects on the rest of the world… but _that_ particular sequence is about a convention of serial killers…"

"Charles Tucker…" Charlie sounded both shocked and angry.

"Oh, grow _up_, Charlie." Suddenly Jonathan discovered where Trip learned his look of disdain. "Your son hasn't been reading _Superman_ for several years now." Fiona turned back to Trip. "What discussion did we have about these?"

"You requested that I leave them at home for the summer." Trip recited in a flat voice.

"And…"

"And I said that I would do so."

Fiona switched the pad off, but didn't put it away. "So… can you explain to me how it came to be at this location, when you specifically said that you would not bring it?"

"I lied." Trip kept his blue eyes fixed on his mother's.

"And…"

"And I would best have no major plans on my return, because my future will be largely comprised of chores." Again, this came across as a litany – overly familiar.

"And…"

"And any time I spend time away from the house I will have to provide an exact itinerary of my whereabouts, for it is fairly obvious that my word cannot be trusted." Trip's face remained blank. "May we go, now?"

"Where are you intending to go?" Apparently Fiona wasn't going to wait until Trip got home.

"I am intending to take James to the bathroom… and then Malcolm and I were going to take Elizabeth and James and show them our Arts and Crafts project."

"Which is?"

"It's a surprise."

Fiona's eyes narrowed. "Try again, Mister."

Trip straightened up. "We're building a trey-bu-shay." He frowned. "Malcolm knows how to say it."

"A what?" Jonathan stared at them. _A trebuchet? I don't _think_ so._ So _that_ was what Trip had meant by a heavy calibre weapon. "Not on my time…"

"I don't think so." Fiona echoed Jonathan's thoughts. "I have enough trouble with your projects without you moving onto heavy weaponry."

"It's a scale model." Trip moved into defensive mode.

"Well, if it's a scale…" Jonathan let himself have a small sigh of relief. "By the way, Trip…"

"So, if I may, Mom…" Trip didn't even look in Jonathan's direction.

"Trip… your counsellor was speaking to you."

"He was?" Trip's voice became brittle again. "Really. Well, I don't really care to listen to anything he has to say… I prefer honesty in my conversations."

_Didn't you just admit you lied to your mother?_ Jonathan pulled back a little… hurt.

"Trip…" Fiona's voice carried more warning than Jonathan's had at breakfast. "Don't be rude. Now apologise to him, right now."

"I have nothing to apologise for. And if that requires me to be Confined To My Room upon my return… well then I suppose I will have to accept that. So if you will excuse us…" This time Trip did leave, taking his brother and sister with him. Malcolm walked alongside them, talking with James.

"I'm sorry." Jonathan shook his head. "We've had a few communications problems. It really is my fault."

"Jonathan…" Fiona placed a hand on his shoulder. "I believe I know my own son. It could hardly be _all _your fault… Trip is very difficult to deal with sometimes. Frankly, I'm surprised that you've managed to go this long without calling us with a complaint. This past year has been particularly difficult…"

"It's a difficult age," Jonathan agreed. "On both sides. I know I was no picnic for my father, either. I can survive. He seems very close to his siblings."

Fiona nodded. "He _is_ very devoted to them… it's one of the reasons we were grateful for this opportunity. He's been so much of an adult when it comes to them, we were hoping he'd be able to act like a child."

"Are he and this Malcolm boy really friends?" Charlie asked his first question of the visit.

"Yes. They've actually become quite good friends."

"Thank God." Charlie exhaled loudly. "We've been concerned about that, too. Trip doesn't have many friends… he had a few a couple of years ago, but they've grown apart. Trip doesn't bond well… not closely. Most people wouldn't believe he's shy… but he is. He actually didn't speak until he was two… not a single word, and then he had his speech problem."

"His stammer." Jonathan remembered the look on Trip's face as he'd fought to get the words out. "That must have been difficult for him."

Fiona sighed. "He was such a sweet child… a lot like James, actually. Much more naturally curious… then these past couple of years – this year especially – he's been moody."

"Adolescence, Fiona. I'm sure Jonathan remembers what it was like." Charlie proved that there were _some_ things he did pay attention to. "In case you didn't see… our son has started to notice the existence of girls. This tends to come as a shock, discovering that you've been sharing the planet with a whole other species for all this time."

Jonathan laughed. "Yeah, I remember that. I figured that might be part of his problem… it might be an explanation for his headaches, too."

"Headaches?" Charlie was lost again.

"You mean the migraines?" Fiona asked. "Don't look so shocked, I've been aware of them for a while. But Trip is stubborn, and he won't admit that there's anything wrong. He didn't cooperate the last time I took him to the doctor… he lied about the whole thing. Had the doctor convinced that I was an overprotective mother. He's very charming when he wants to be."

It didn't seem like they were aware of the extent of Trip's depression. _How do I tell them? _Do_ I tell them? He might just lie about it to them… and to any doctor they take him to. All he has to do is convince them I'm over-reacting… and he could probably pull that off._ Instead, he changed the subject. "Do you know what Trip wants to be when he grows up?"

"You mean _if_ he grows up." Charlie shrugged. "Sometimes I think that boy is never going to mature. He's got a natural talent for Engineering, though… but I doubt he's inclined to listen to me."

"Maybe with the right mentor…" Jonathan rubbed his hands together nervously. "I'd like to get your permission… set up a meeting if I may."

"A meeting?" Fiona looked at him, oddly.

"With my father. Henry Archer? He's with the Warp Five program. I've spoken to him about Trip… and I'm sure he'd love to meet him."

"You're _Henry_ Archer's son?" Charlie grinned. "Well, isn't that gonna be a kick in the teeth. I've heard about your father… Trip talks about him and Zephram Cochran like they were second only to God. Are you sure you want to do that to your father, though?"

Jonathan laughed again. "I'm sure Dad can handle him… he's used to engineers… I swear he can handle pretty much anything. But I'd like to make it a surprise, if I could."

"Why are you doing this?" Suspicion crept into Fiona's voice. "Why do you want to help Trip like this… most people wouldn't."

"Trip didn't tell you, then?" Jonathan scanned their faces, but they clearly had no clue. "He saved Malcolm's life… Malcolm nearly drowned and Trip saved him. He's a good kid… even more than that. I know a lot of people don't think so… he has a rough time with that. And the communication… it _was_ my fault. I should have been clearer about my meaning… and I wasn't. It led to a misunderstanding… but I'm hoping to be able to fix that."

They seemed surprised... but not overly so. Charlie looked as though Trip's not mentioning his participation in an act of heroism was almost something to be expected.

"Let him calm down," Fiona advised. "He's got my temper… we clash quite a bit. He's easily offended… I think he gets _that_ from his father…" Charlie's look of affront confirmed that statement, "but he _won't_ listen when his temper gets going. Our family doctor explained it as an 'emotional hijacking.' That doesn't make it any easier to deal with… but some time with James and Elizabeth should help. Oh, and when you _do_ talk to him? Sit him down in a room with no distractions, and make sure you look him in the eye. That way at least one word in ten might get through."

"Thank you. I'm sorry…" Jonathan stepped back. "Would you care for something to eat or drink? There's a buffet set up in the mess hall… I've been standing here with you and haven't bothered to offer." As they headed towards the mess hall, Jonathan found himself planning his apology to Trip. _And I'm taking your mother's advice… I don't care if you consider it Siding With the Enemy._


	13. Communicating

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters… I'm just kidnapping them for a bit.

Author's note: Sorry for so long of a delay. I've been working, housesitting, and trying to write by hand. It's not easy… and it takes much longer. Please review… and I will try to get to the next one a little faster.

**Chapter 13: Communicating**

"A scale model?" Malcolm waited until they were out of earshot of Jonathan and Trip's parents; he didn't want Trip to get into any more trouble. "I thought we were going for full size." He couldn't help but feel disappointed – he'd never thought Trip would be the one to scale things down.

"Scale," Trip confirmed. "It's not my fault he was too dumb to ask _what_ scale."

"You mean…"

"Yourenotsp'osetocallpe'ol'edumbTrip." James looked up at his brother accusingly, the words barely understandable in the rush.

"Supposed. People. Enunciate, Jamesy. Anyway, he's a grownup… it's different."

"Enunciate?" Malcolm blinked at Trip – the southerner was hardly one to talk about enunciation, yet…

"Listen to how Malcolm talks, Jamesy. He's ten, too. Remember… take your time and speak slowly." Trip sent James into the bathroom. "He's in speech therapy… no one could understand him for a while… he speaks too fast and everything just runs together. The trick is to get him to slow down and focus at each word." Trip sat down on the steps and pulled a comb in an elastic band out from his back pocket. "Come here, Lizzie." The little girl pouted, but stood obediently in front of her brother.

Malcolm stared in fascination as Trip began to tease the tangles out of Elizabeth's hair. "I mean, one-to-one is still a scale." Satisfied that the hair was knot-free, Trip laid down the comb and tucked the elastic in his teeth, freeing up his hands for the delicate weaving of a French-braid. When he finished, he secured it with the elastic. He'd been quick enough – Malcolm realised – to complete the task by the time James returned.

"Did you wash your hands?" Malcolm caught it this time – the change in Trip's voice when he spoke to his siblings.

_He does enunciate_. In fact, Trip had a radically different tone and pattern of speech for every person he spoke to. Yet none of it came across as truly an act… instead he was like a master – well, actor – inhabiting each role with genuine equality. Not only that, but… _It's like I'm the only person he's fully _him_ around_. Everyone else: parents, teachers, peers… even his brother and sister, got a guarded version, a reflection. In fact… as soon as Elizabeth had come crashing through the woods, Trip shifted. He dropped the subject of suicide instantly, forcing the darkness back down inside with a couple of blinks and gently scolding her for being undressed. He'd given Malcolm a warning look over her shoulder… one that said Malcolm had best not bring it up again, at least not while she was present.

"Now, you stay here with Malcolm while I take Lizzie in." Trip finished inspecting James' hands and stood up. "We'll be right back… make sure he doesn't get into trouble, okay, Mal?"

It didn't sound like an order… Malcolm got the impression he was being bestowed a rare measure of trust. The two ten-year-olds stared at each other while Trip disappeared with his sister.

"You talk funny," James blurted.

"That's because I'm speaking English." It was a nasty comeback, and he had a feeling his friend wouldn't be happy with it… but he didn't talk funny. _James_ after all, was the one in speech therapy.

"IspeakEnglish." Malcolm had to fight to understand James' reply.

"Actually… you speak an American dialect." A dialect of a dialect, when you got down to it; Americans seemed to have an astounding number of regionalisms.

"I donknow Dilec. Ispeak English."

_And this is your brother?_ James – it seemed – was nowhere near the same level of intellect as Trip.

"Yourestupid." James stuck his tongue out at Malcolm.

"I thought you weren't supposed to say that about people." Malcolm resisted the urge to make a face back.

"What are you two fighting about?" Trip came up, holding Elizabeth by the hand. "James…"

"HesaidI…"

Trip held up a hand. "James…"

"He said I don't speak English… He says he talks funny because he speaks English and I talk Dilec. I…" James stopped as Trip started to laugh.

"Jamesy… he didn't say you don't speak English… he says you speak a different _kind_ of English. Malcolm's from England… so he speaks _English_ English. You speak American English. A dia_lect_. It just means… it just means a different kind of a language, that's all. He doesn't talk funny at all… he just has an accent."

_I have an accent?_ If anyone had an accent, it was Trip.

"Oh. What's a tre… tri…"

"Trebuchet?" Malcolm decided he had a better grasp of this one… Trip could translate. "It's a…"

"It's a machine, Jamesy." Trip shook his head at Malcolm in another warning.

"Oh." James instantly lost interest.

"James prefers video-games and graphic arts programming," Trip explained. "He's not into construction at all. Speaking of… how accurate do you want to be on this?"

"Accurate?"

"I mean… do you want to go with the historical type design like you were showing me… or something a little more efficient… a little less wasted motion and energy? 'Cause if we can overcome the friction co-efficient, then I think we can change to a more linear motion type design… we could shorten the arm but get the same amount of energy transfer… maybe more."

"Okay." Malcolm hadn't considered adding improvements. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, if we put the throwing arm on rails… on a sort of cart set-up, and drop the weight bucket straight down… instead of going in an arc… we can transfer more of that inertia straight into the throw, as opposed to it going around. You get more of a snap to it… and that transfers more energy into the projectile itself. The trick, as I said, is going to be overcoming the extra resistance… but we can do it with the right lubricant… graphite would probably be best. I think I saw some in Genius Jay's stuff… it's a little messy, but damn near frictionless."

"I _know_ I saw some pencils in his things," Malcolm volunteered. "If we have to, we can grind them up – it's what they did in World War Two."

"Cool." Trip looked impressed. "I think the toughest thing is going to be finding materials. I mean we've got a lot of trees around, but that's not the same as lumber."

"_The Great Escape_. It's not like they _gave_ the POW's tunnelling materials and disguises… they had to scrounge them… be creative."

"Okay." Trip picked up his sister and they began walking. "So what do you suggest we scrounge _from_?"

"Well… they took a lot of theirs off of the walls… and extra slats out of the bunks."

"Didn't it get noticed? I mean, a huge gaping hole in the wall?"

Malcolm sighed. "They took them from places they _wouldn't_ be noticed… like behind cabinetry… or inner wall supports. And there were mattresses on the bunks, just like ours."

A slow smile spread across Trip's face. "That could really _work_."

"Well… it won't be easy." After all… it _was_ just the two of them. "They had a whole _camp_ full of help, though… I don't think we're going to convince anyone to sing Christmas carols to cover the sound of us hammering."

"I know Christmas carols," Elizabeth volunteered. "I can sing."

"That's right, sweetie… but we don't need you to do that right now." Trip kissed his sister on the forehead. "Malcolm and I are talking about a movie."

"No, you're not." Elizabeth seemed to have problems with neither speech, nor intelligence. "You're talking about another _thing_, Trip. I wanna help."

"Thing?" Malcolm looked at Trip, questioningly.

"It's what Elizabeth calls a project." Trip seemed to be trying to control his pride.

"Are you gonna burn the carpet and get it all messy, like last time? When Daddy said that you might want to consider moving somewhere with child labour so you could get a job and pay for it? That your 'lowance was 'voked, forever?"

"I was helping James build a volcano for his school science project." Trip rolled his eyes.

"Volcano? Isn't that…"

"The easy project." Trip looked disgusted.

_Actually… I was going to say isn't that something that doesn't generally involve dangerous materials?_ Malcolm kicked himself, mentally. Of _course_ Trip would never do anything the 'safe' way. "What did you do? For your science project?"

"The physics of Skateboarding… like how it corners… what kind of pressures are going against the ground, and against the board and into the rider."

"Did you do well?"

Trip snorted. "I got D/Q'd. Apparently it was felt that there was not enough student involvement in the project. I did the entire damn _thing_ on my own… I researched it all… wrote up the reports… hell, I even did all the filming and special effects to show _how_ all of the forces were affecting each part. _That_ wasn't easy… I had to set up a camera at a ton of different angles and heights… and run the same turn past it a million times. But someone claimed I couldn't have done it… and guess who got believed?"

"Surely they asked your parents…"

"Oh, yeah, they did. And my parents swore they didn't help me… but since they didn't stand over my shoulder either… there was no way to prove I didn't get help."

"But…" Malcolm fell silent as Trip shook his head again, and mouthed 'Later.' Obviously it was another sore point, and one he didn't want to discuss in front of James and Elizabeth. _He's so protective._ Which probably meant that he kept a lot of things bottled up… if he spent as much time looking after them as it appeared. _They prefer him over their own parents_. Not in a 'my parents are bad' sort of way, but more along the lines that Trip was the more _familiar_ caretaker. _'Explosions are caused by an increase in inside pressure, past the point of sustainability of the container.'_ He wasn't sure _which_ text-book he'd read that in… probably one of the old weapons manuals… but he suddenly realised that it pertained to far more than ordnances. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe." Trip stepped off the path and into the woods. "Come on, Jamesy." He resumed addressing Malcolm. "I mean… it's not like we can build this thing out on the baseball diamond… I don't think they'd buy the idea that we were putting together a pitching machine. I was thinking that that clearing over on the far side of the lake might be just perfect. It's got enough space to set it up in… and it's far enough out of the way that no one should notice it."

"That's a good idea." Malcolm felt a twinge of jealousy for not thinking of it himself. _I thought I was a pretty good strategic planner_. Trip – it seemed – thought farther ahead, though.

"Hey… you spend as much time as I do trying not to get caught… and you learn to think of these things." Trip seemed to sense how Malcolm felt. "It's not your fault you were raised to be honest."

"That's okay… I can learn." Malcolm smiled as Trip began to laugh. It was… he realised, his first truly successful joke.

"I guess I still find it hard to believe that Trip is actually getting along so well with another one of the boys here." Charlie shook his head as Jonathan finished up his story of Trip's rescue, leaving out the detail of the bite. "He's always had trouble relating to his peers."

_Maybe it's because he doesn't _have_ any_. Jonathan stopped before he could say it, feeling like he'd had an epiphany. Maybe he had… because everything about Trip spoke so clearly when seen in that context. _And I'm such an idiot, because he told me, and I didn't listen. Way to go communicating, Jon._ How had Trip put it? Skaterboy-gearhead-musclebrain-geekfreak? From the sounds of things, even the _outcasts_ wouldn't take him in… probably because they thought he was too popular.

"We've tried everything," Charlie continued. "Sports… intellectual pursuits… even the time he spent at computer camp was a disaster. He just can't seem to bring himself to fit in. The only two people he seems to get along with on a regular basis are James and Elizabeth… and I'm not sure that relationship is entirely healthy, either."

"Charlie…" Fiona gave her husband a tired look.

"He's more like a parent to them than a sibling. Half the time he _won't_ let us take over… he has to do it himself. And it's gotten to the point that _he's_ the only one _they'll_ listen to half the time. He's obsessive, Fiona. When was the last time you cut up Elizabeth's steak for her, hmmn? It's not because she can cut it for herself… but Trip's the one that does it." Charlie stabbed angrily at a piece of potato salad. "He's twelve years old and a more diligent parent than I am. The stupid thing is, I would like to be given a chance."

"Are you afraid that the stress might be getting to him?" No, Charlie certainly wasn't as clueless as he'd first appeared. Jonathan spoke carefully, however, not wanting to open up something that hadn't been already peeked at.

Charlie sighed. "I'm _scared_ that my son is going to burn himself out by the time he's seventeen. He has days where he doesn't eat… because he's too damn busy or too damn tense, or too damn _something_-or-other. Before Christmas, Elizabeth got sick from food-poisoning at some school event… she actually spent a couple of days in the hospital. I got more calls about him skipping class than ever… he spent every minute he could in her room, making sure she was okay, reading to her, playing with her... The doctor damn near hospitalized _him_, because he was hyperventilating and had tachycardia when they tried to remove him. He _did_ put Trip on tranquillisers for a while… diagnosed it as being extreme anxiety. It took another two months before Trip stopped obsessing over Elizabeth's food… in fact, he still hasn't… completely. He'd probably forbid her to eat most of the things on this buffet for instance… simply due to the minute possibility of contamination."

"Didn't the doctor…"

"Do something?" Charlie finished. "It's kind of hard to prove stress when the patient convinces you that there isn't any. Like Fiona said, he can be very charming when he wants to be… to be honest I think he's paranoid that we'll use it as an excuse to call him an 'unfit parent' and take his kids away." Sarcasm dripped off the last sentence, but Jonathan sensed truth behind it as well.

"Have you considered taking him out of some of his other activities?" After all… if Trip was 'too busy' to eat, it might help to give him more time.

"We have…" Fiona answered this time, her voice sad. "… but it comes right back to James and Elizabeth. Most of the other activities… it's just an excuse to keep him away from them, let him be a kid. It got to the point where I forbid him to stay home if I was there to take care of them… I actually banned my own son from his house. I told him that if he didn't spend at least two hours a day on his own…"

_Ouch_. Done with the best intentions, perhaps… _but it's got to hurt when your own parents say 'go away.'_ At the same time, if Charlie wasn't exaggerating, then Trip _needed_ to be told to take some time and be a kid.

"Where are they, anyway? I thought this was supposed to be a _family_ thing… not a grab your siblings and run, day." Charlie checked his watch. "It's been almost two hours."

"I'm sure…" Jonathan was interrupted by a laugh from the door.

"Isn't it cute… who's Mommy?" Dutretre's voice was unmistakable.

Jonathan turned to see Trip and Malcolm coming in, Trip with a child in each hand.

"Dickhead." The response came not from Trip, but from Elizabeth. Trip knelt and spoke to her, a stern look on his face. He then stood up and shot a glare at Dutretre that could have slagged steel.

"We have such charming manners in our family." Fiona's flat smile betrayed her bright tone.

Jonathan ignored her, sending his own glare in Kendricks' direction instead. _You back your little buddy off… or I'm breaking your face, right here, right now._ His own protective streak resurfaced… at least Trip was responsible enough to take care of a couple of kids. _You, on the other hand… someone ought to cut your balls off before you can procreate_. If – given the way Kendricks bragged sometimes – he hadn't procreated already.

As Charlie had predicted, Trip bypassed the buffet and brought James and Elizabeth straight to the table. He then crouched between the two of them, holding on to their shoulders. "I'm going to go get you guys something to eat, okay? I'll be right back."

"Trip…"

Trip gave his father a glare only slightly less intense than the one he'd favoured Dutretre with. "I am not serving them any of this. I will _not_ risk my sister ending up in the hospital again because somebody couldn't keep a proper temperature check on that crap." Trip nodded towards the potato salad. "It's fine if you want to risk your own lives, but I will not take that chance with theirs."

"No, you'll teach her how to climb trees, so she can break her neck… but you won't take the miniscule chance that there _might_ be a microbe in there." Charlie didn't blink. "You know we _are_ capable of being competent parents. We did manage to raise you."

"Yeah, and we can all see how well that turned out." Trip smiled, but there was no warmth… it was more like a reflex grin to quell the gag impulse.

"Charles Tucker…" Charlie spoke through clenched teeth as well.

"I'm not taking that chance, Dad." Trip spoke simply, merely stating an inarguable fact. He turned and stalked off to the kitchen, presumably to find something suitable for consumption.

"Damn." Charlie's hand curled into a fist. "There are times when…"

"We debated not even coming." Fiona laid her hand on Charlie's arm. "We thought it might be better if he didn't slide back into this mode…" She stopped as Malcolm's head whipped up suddenly, and Jonathan felt his own face going pale.

_That explains _so_ much about breakfast_. Trip had been doing so well… right up until Rodriguez had hammered on that weak point. _And while he's crumbling in uncertainty, I go and grind him into the dirt._

"I'm glad you did decide to come, sir." Malcolm looked like he was trying not to start shaking. "Trip was very much looking forward to seeing his family again. The closeness that you share is quite enviable."

"Why, thank you." Both Trip's parents seemed to be caught off guard by Malcolm's manners. Jonathan could see them trying to square the idea of this polite young boy being friends with the hellion they knew for a son.

_Hell, I'm still trying to do it… and I watched it happen_. He felt like he was tap-dancing in a minefield, however. He didn't think he could stand up to it if the Tuckers started questioning him… _so I'll be a coward and hand it off to the kid_. Malcolm seemed to be dealing with it better anyway… he was respectfulling them into a state of shock. "Excuse me, for just a moment." He stood up, and headed out after Trip.

"Will you get him _out_ of here?" One of the kitchen workers waved at the walk-in cooler as Jonathan walked through the door. "He's been quizzing us on food safety from the second he got in here… it seems that suddenly we're not _good_ enough for him."

"He's a little protective," Jonathan explained. Trip's reputation had certainly spread, however. Any other kid and they would have bodily thrown him out… with Trip… well, they seemed to be afraid of getting bitten. He walked into the cooler and pulled the door shut behind him.

_Well, your mother _did_ say a room with no distractions. In your case, I don't think food is all that distracting._ So it was cold as hell in here… Trip needed to cool off. "Am I allowed back into the human race again, or is my exile permanent?"

Trip crossed his arms over his chest, goosebumps breaking out on his skin as the fans kicked in.

"Okay… it's probably far easier for you to listen if you're not saying anything, anyway. I was wrong earlier today…"

The look on Trip's face said it clearly: 'I am not falling for that, again.'

"… I was wrong. I should have insisted that _both_ of you knock it off, not just you. I admit it… I reacted without thinking, and I reacted stupidly. I'm sorry. I've been tense about today too… I've had a lot to worry about. To be honest… I never assumed that your parents might not show up… I didn't realise that it was a concern of yours. Now, again, that was my error in judgment… in placing you in a special category. It was very insensitive of me to assume that you would not have the same worries as everybody else… that you were something other than a person. But communication works both ways… I can't be expected to know everything if you don't tell me. Like for instance…" Jonathan locked his eyes on Trip's, making sure the boy was listening to this, "… why didn't you tell your parents about what happened to Malcolm. Most kids would have at least mentioned _something_, even if they left out the fact that they were the hero."

Trip shrugged, more than he'd done since breakfast. "Why should they believe me? I don't _have_ friends, let alone ones I'd risk my life for." His control cracked, and the torrent of words broke free. His breath ghosted out in front of him… the temperature was dropping fast. "You saw the look on their faces when I introduced Malcolm – they're probably _still_ out there trying to figure out how the hell he could be my friend. When I wrote about him? I'll bet you anything you want that they thought I made him up so that they'd think I was 'adjusting well' to this hell-hole. You heard my dad… he doesn't think I'm capable of handling James and Elizabeth… _he_ was the one who let her get sick the last time. If it were up to him… I'd lay money I'd be in some psych ward somewhere…drugged up on God knows what… because I simply don't act my age. Did you know that? That he wanted the doctor to keep me on meds? I bet he didn't tell you that part. Oh, yeah, I was super-easy to control when I couldn't even _think_."

"Trip…"

"He's jealous, because I do a better job than he does. So he tries to say I'm obsessive and 'endangering my health.'"

"A racing heart is nothing to be dismissive of, Trip. Did you consider that maybe he's concerned about you? You're his kid too. Do you think that because you're the oldest, or because you've been a bit difficult at times, he doesn't love you? _I'll_ lay money that he's scared to _death_ about you. That he's scared that something's going to happen to _you_… and he's not willing to lose you like that. Look at you… you're so worried about Elizabeth that you'll go to any lengths to make sure that her food is safe to eat. Isn't your dad allowed to care about you in the same way?"

Trip's knees buckled and he sank down to the cold floor. "But he tries to keep them away from me… Mom does too."

Jonathan crouched down beside him. "I know… but maybe it's because they want you to spend more time being a kid. Parenting is hard work, Trip… and it's not easy to do on your own. It was hard for my Dad to handle it… and he was grown up. I'm not saying you don't do a good job… from what I've been able to see, you do a _great_ job… but it's not a job that's meant for a twelve-year-old – even one as mature as you are. And you want to know one of the most important things about being a parent? My dad told me this one… and I believe him. You can't always be there to hold their hands… sometimes you've got to let them fall. Every parent wants their kids to have happy lives… but sometimes you've got to let them go enough to be able to _live_ those lives." It seemed odd… giving parenting advice to a twelve-year-old… but that _was_ the job Trip had taken on. Better to acknowledge it for what it was, than try to candy-coat it behind images of a responsible brother.

"What do you mean?"

"It's great that you want to protect Elizabeth… really great in fact. Most kids have some jealousy issues… it looks like you've managed to avoid that. But you can't protect her from everything… no matter how hard you try. You've got to consider yourself, and your own health, Trip. Elizabeth loves you, right?"

Trip nodded.

"Then don't make her have to go to your funeral. You might _think_ you're okay, and that you can handle it… but your body can only take so much before it breaks down. Don't kid yourself, someone your age can have a heart attack, and you're already showing signs of stress-related illness. Your parents aren't taking you to the doctor because they think your 'unfit,' they're taking you because they're afraid for your _health_."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not, Trip. Fine doesn't go on two and three day hunger strikes… fine doesn't get crippling headaches and fine _certainly_ doesn't go thinking that suicide makes sense. You _need_ to see a doctor and be honest, Trip – no more lies. You can't keep going like this. Even the best parents need time for themselves – time away to _be_ themselves."

"How would you know?"

_Good question_. He could hardly claim experience – Trip had him beat on that front. "Because when you're older, parents tell you more things… explain their reasoning a little better." Jonathan sighed. "I know this is a rough period in your life… it is for everybody…"

"I already got the school Health lecture. Body changes… blah, blah, blah, hormonal… yadda, yadda, yadda. Like that _means_ anything."

"It means a hell of a lot." It felt strange, defending puberty. "You _are_ going through a lot, and it can seriously mess with your brain chemistry."

"Is that why you feel sorry for me? Brain chemistry? Why? Because you did it too? I am so _glad_ we have something in common."

Jonathan forced himself to keep his voice level. _This is _not_ just a bratty kid, no matter _how_ much he sounds like it._ Any other kid like this, and his first instinct would be to say that a good slap was in order. _But you've been slapped a little too much, haven't yo,u kiddo? I don't mean that people have hit you…but you know what pain feels like_. "All I'm saying is that it's another source of stress, and it's one you can't control. And having a little sympathy is not the same as feeling sorry for you." Jonathan sighed again, trying to think of a way to get through those defensive layers once more. "Anyway, you did good out there."

Trip stared at him, clearly not comprehending.

"I'll bet that most of those guys out there have written home about this weird kid who does all these crazy things – and is so rude – and is always getting in trouble. What their parents saw…" Jonathan smiled, wickedly, "What those parents saw was a well-mannered, responsible person who looks after his little brother and sister: the kind of kid they'd want to have themselves. It's going to be a lot tougher for anybody to convince their parents that you're the bad guy."

"Like that makes the slightest fucking bit of difference." Disdain cascaded from Trip's tone. "It's not like those are the people I have to deal with on a daily basis. You think seeing me with James and Lizzie is going to change Chess' mom's mind? Or Mr. Calvin's, or my principal's? Or how about my coach… oh yeah, I can really see him turning around and saying what a wonderful, responsible young man I am. And how much damn good is your _sympathy_ going to do, when this camp is over, and you take off back to your happy little college life and your social-work future, and I'm stuck with the same shit?"

Jonathan's brow furrowed. "What makes you think I'm going into social-work?"

"It's written all over you. Trying to 'save' the trouble kid. Pretending I've got this good kid underneath… trying to make me believe it. Well, I didn't ask to be saved. And I know me better than you do."

"Actually," if they were going to go for full disclosure here… "I have no interest in social-work, whatsoever. Yes I'm in University… but I'm also intending to go to Starfleet Academy. As for you… I don't know, maybe I've just lost my mind. Or maybe there's just something in me who hates seeing a smart, talented person throw their life away because they've chosen to believe the worst things people have to say about them."

"Everybody in the world can't be wrong." Trip sounded subdued, though, as if he was thinking of something else.

"Uh, yeah they can. For the longest time everybody in the world believed that the Earth was flat, and that it was the centre of the universe." Okay, so it was a cliché, but it was the best Jonathan could think of.

"It is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

Jonathan shook his head. "How can you say that the Earth is the centre of the Universe? _Copernicus_ disproved that one."

"No… he didn't. He proved that the Earth goes around the Sun. That doesn't disprove that the Earth is the centre of the universe. If the Universe is truly infinite… which they haven't disproven yet, then _any_ point in it is the centre... there's an equally infinite distance to any side."

_I'm arguing mathematical philosophy with a twelve-year-old in the middle of a giant refrigerator. And I thought I'd have to wait until I got out into space for weird things like this to happen to me._ "Okay… but you _still_ can't say the Earth – as a whole, planetary body – is flat." He added the clarification, realising that Trip was willing to pick apart everything just to win. _You are _so_ competitive, kid_. Now _that_ was something that Jonathan _did_ understand… the burning desire to win every contest. _And I am _not _going to make it easy for you._ "Everybody _can_ be wrong… and you're not _dealing_ with everybody."

"Everybody with power. I mean… congratulations for you. You get to do Starfleet… you think _I've_ got a shot?" Trip's tone clearly indicated that he didn't think so. " 'Cause the minute they start asking about me… my counsellor, my teachers… nobody's going to have one decent thing to say about me. _That_ means as much as grades… and I can't get those either, because I don't do things the 'right' way."

"… and because your teachers hate you." In Trip's case, it just might be true. His math teacher certainly seemed biased… jealous, maybe? "There are ways around that… you can challenge the exams… get different references…"

"Oh, like, from you?" Trip batted his eyes sarcastically. "I can _so_ see how that would just make up for _everything_ else."

_You really haven't made the connection, have you?_ Charlie was right, when Trip finally found out, it _would_ be a kick in the teeth. "Maybe… you'd be surprised how well inside references can work. And despite all the grief you've caused me… I think you'd do well there." If Trip wanted it… he'd probably be able to make himself fit in with most of the rules. "You're a hard worker… you probably work harder than any other kid I've met… even at things you don't like."

Trip said nothing… just stared at Jonathan, waiting for the older boy to continue.

"Talent only goes so far, Trip… you've clearly worked at your pitching… even though you apparently hate it. _That's_ the kind of thing Starfleet looks for. I'm not saying it'll be easy… but it'll be impossible if you give up."

Trip still didn't say anything, just whistled a couple of bars of 'The Impossible Dream.' He shivered now, his light T-shirt doing nothing to stave off the cold.

Suddenly Jonathan realised how cold he was, too. "It's _not_ impossible, Trip." He wished he could tell… but he still wasn't ready. _Please say you'll do this, Dad. It'll mean so much more, coming from you_. If Charlie was right, and Henry was a hero to Trip… well, lesser things had turned a kid around. _And if _I_ say he's good… he's right, they probably won't listen… but if _you_ say it, they might sit up and pay attention._ "But… I think we've been gone long enough… they're going to start to wonder about us… send out an expedition. And you _were_ going to get some food for your brother and sister." Jonathan straightened up, his muscles stiff from the cold. He reached down a hand to Trip who took it. Finally Trip settled on some cryo-packed sandwich fillings (carefully checking for expiry dates) and some cheese slices – swiss and cheddar. He skipped the bread… clearly, it didn't pass the safety test.

"Mom and Dad will probably feed them some fast-food crap on the way home," he admitted, "but as long as I can take care of it…"

Jonathan nodded. "I understand." He _did_ understand, too. It came with the competitiveness – a desire for perfectionism. If you were there and could control it… well it was going to be as good as you could damn well make it. _And _that_ my friend, is what we have in common. _As for the other… _familiarity doesn't always make for heroes._


	14. Transformation

Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise or any of it's characters. The story is mine, however, archive if you wish, but **_please ask_**I do not make any money from this, it is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Any errors in translations… I'm sorry… I had to do it by machine, I can't afford any actual translators. The French should be okay… as for the rest sheepish grimace … well, if you can fix it for me… let me know.

**Chapter 14: Transformation**

"This was a _great_ idea, Mal." Trip dumped some flexible metal strips beside the beginning frame for the trebuchet. "I probably couldn't have gotten hold of _half_ of this stuff if I asked for it… just because most people wouldn't know what to look for."

"Where did you get those?" Malcolm gestured towards the metal strips.

Trip grinned wickedly. "Well, you know how Jonathan's got an actual bed, instead of a wood slat bunk like ours?"

Malcolm's eyes grew wide and he looked from the strips to Trip and back again. "You took the supports out of Jonathan's bed?"

Trip sighed. "Not all of them." As tempting as it had been, the whole idea was to _not_ get caught. "I had to sneak in and borrow a few from some other counsellors as well. It got tricky when one of them came in… and let's just say that some of them could probably stand to meet up with some girls."

"Excuse me?" Malcolm furrowed his brow.

Trip pulled out a pad and switched it on. "Under good ol' Kenny's bunk. I haven't seen anything like that since Mary Jane Wessler and Bobby-Joe Connelly decided to do an extensive anatomy study in the sports equipment store-room – I needed a shotput to serve as a counterweight for this thing I was building." He turned the pad off again. "I'm still not impressed. I mean they say that when we enter puberty, that sort of thing becomes interesting… but I don't see how it's a spectator sport." He stuffed the pad back in his pocket.

"Why are you keeping it then?" Malcolm _sounded_ like he was asking innocently… but Malcolm could be a little too observant at times, too.

" 'Cause… 'cause I can download other stuff on to it. And it's not a good thing to have lying around in a camp full of kids." Trip could feel his ears turning red. He wasn't sure _why_ he'd kept it… he just… kept it.

"But it _wasn't_ just lying around… you said he had it under his bunk." Malcolm seemed to be enjoying Trip's discomfiture.

_That's not fair. You're too young_. Malcolm _was_ only ten… he wasn't ready for girls, yet. "Yeah… but anybody could have found it. What if it had been one of the younger kids… that kinda thing can scar you, you know."

"Apparently, some people like that sort of thing." Again Malcolm sounded too innocent to be true.

Trip choked. "I can't believe you're saying stuff like that. Malcolm, you're _ten_. I don't know _grown-ups_ that say stuff like that." Forget his ears… the flush had spread to his entire face.

Malcolm fell down laughing. "You should see your face. I thought _nothing_ embarrassed you. I may only be ten… but I sometimes overhear people talking, you know. And I know _what_ they're talking about, even if it sounds disgusting."

"Ohhhh." Trip pulled the pad out of his pocket and dropped it on the ground before stomping on it until the display shattered. "You are a horrible, evil, person, you know that? I thought you were just this shy little kid… but you are really and truly evil. And to think you had my parents fooled into thinking you were polite."

Malcolm laughed even harder, until finally he lay on the ground, gasping. "I used to be… but then I met you. You were the one who said I should learn how to swear."

"Swear, hell, yeah. Talk about stuff like that… Shit, Mal… that's just _sick_." It was one thing to be trading crude jokes with Jonathan… but what _Malcolm_ was coming out with… "That's just sick."

Malcolm began drying his tears with his fists when a loud shouting from the main camp reached them.

"Somebody is _really_ pissed." Trip started back towards the yelling. Given the volume, really pissed just might have been an understatement… they sounded _incensed_. Reaching the path, he broke into a jog, not even waiting for Malcolm to catch up.

He pulled up short as they reached the edge of the cabin area. Kendricks yelled at Jonathan, too loudly to be understood while Dutretre stood beside Kendricks, crying and rubbing his butt.

"Wow." Malcolm spoke softly… not that it really mattered. "Just like in the movie."

Kendricks caught sight of them and charged over. "You did this. I know you did this you little…"

Jonathan caught up and grabbed Kendricks by the arm. "Hey. Back off. Right now."

"Did what?" Trip blinked innocently. It looked like Jonathan and Kendricks were going to get into it again, and while a fight between the counsellors might be entertaining, it would also cause more trouble than Trip needed at the moment.

"He fell through his bunk… _someone_ took the support slats out." Kendricks leaned in close, breathing in Trip's face, clearly believing he knew who that someone was. "Look me in the eye and say you didn't do this."

"I didn't do it." Trip never took his eyes away from Kendricks'. Kendricks shook with rage, but finally stormed off to take care of his injured camper.

Jonathan waited until Kendricks was out of earshot, then turned to Trip. And odd smile ghosted Jonathan's lips, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, hotshot, now tell me the truth."

Trip shrugged. "I did it." _That was almost like Mom_.

Jonathan nodded. "And would you care to explain _why_?"

"I wanted to see what would happen."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow in more shades of Fiona. "Try again, Mister."

"He's an ass, so I'm not sorry he hurt it?" He _couldn't_ tell Jonathan the truth on this one… not without getting Malcolm in trouble as well. Besides… it wouldn't have happened if Dutretre didn't have a habit of crashing onto his bunk, which factored into Trip's decision to remove more slats from it than anyone else's.

"I see… well, I don't quite happen to believe you… but I don't suppose you'll be willing to divulge your true motives, so… I have no choice but to assume that Malcolm was involved as well."

"He wasn't. He never _touched_ those." At least not while they were still bed slats, and weren't just random pieces of lumber. Trip could feel his heart starting to beat faster. He didn't like the look that was on Jonathan's face – the counsellor looked almost _amused_ rather than angry. _Uh, oh_.

"But I'm _certain_ he's somehow involved in the larger plan." Jonathan sighed, but that odd, crocodile-like smile stayed – and Trip knew what a smiling croc generally meant. "And since he is such a mature, responsible young man who would hate to see you suffer alone…" Jonathan gestured towards the cabin. "After you, gentlemen."

# # # #

_My ready room, gentlemen._ Jonathan herded his miscreants into the back room, then stepped around in front, and turned to face them. Malcolm stood at strict attention, and even Trip had his arms clasped – in front of him, rather than behind him in a typical at-ease style – and looked suitably nervous.

"This kind of behaviour is reprehensible. Someone could have been badly hurt, as opposed to the slight bump he received." Jonathan fought to keep from laughing… it _had_ been funny… Dutretre hadn't really been hurt at all. _And after what he did to Malcolm…_ still, he couldn't condone those kinds of actions. "Now, it is clear that the standard punishments practiced at this camp have little effect on you. So…" He walked over to his dresser and picked up a couple of pads of paper and some pencils. He'd grabbed them earlier, hoping he wouldn't need them… _But I should've known better with these two_. "Three hundred and fifty lines: I will not destroy camp property. I expect them by dinner… and they _will_ all be handwritten. That's three hundred and fifty _each_, Mr. Tucker, not any kind of mathematical permutation between the two of you." He could see the blood draining away from Trip's face – clearly the boy hadn't expected anything along these lines. _Bad one, Jon_.

"Lines?" Trip squeaked. "_Lines?_"

"Lines." Jonathan let his wolfish grin spread even wider. This one might actually work, if Trip's initial reaction was any indication.

"You can't make me write lines… nobody writes lines anymore. It's barbaric… it's ineffective… it's cruel and unusual. You can't _do_ that, it violates my constitutional rights."

"Ah, but we're in _Canada_. The United States Constitution isn't in effect here. And Malcolm isn't even an American citizen." Jonathan couldn't be sure of the legalities involved… but it didn't matter because lines – while unusual – weren't excessively cruel, no matter what Trip thought.

"But why handwritten? I mean it…"

"Oh… I'm supposed to give you a pad so you can write one and have it make 350 copies? No, Mr. Tucker… I'm not that naïve. Three hundred and fifty. By dinner. Which gives you about an hour and a half." Jonathan smirked and handed them the paper and pencils. "Enjoy." The look on Trip's face was just priceless: for the first time he actually _looked_ twelve years old – the world weariness had disappeared in favour of confusion and shock. Only when they'd left did he let the full grin develop. _And _that_, gentlemen, is how you run a tight ship_.

# # # #

_It could have been worse_. Malcolm began his lines, neatly printing each one on a separate row on the sheet. He could hear Trip scribbling fiercely, then swearing as his pencil broke.

"This is stupid. _Nobody_ gives lines anymore. They're an ineffective form of punishment… and they're only getting in our way. An' three hundred fifty in less 'n' two hours? Does he _want_ to give us carpal tunnel?"

"You know, this complaining just slows you down." Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm could see Jonathan leaning over Trip. "Getting in your way of what, might I ask?" Jonathan reached over and tore the sheet away from Trip's pad. "It's _supposed_ to say 'I will not destroy camp property.'"

"It _does _say that." Trip made a grab for the sheet, but Jonathan crumpled it up. Malcolm began a new line.

"In _English_ amigo. Not whatever language that happened to be." Jonathan leaned over and glanced at Malcolm's. "I _will_ be checking your grammar on that, you know."

"You know it then?" Malcolm asked, in flawless Latin, which he'd just finished his latest line in. He _had_ been writing everything in English… but Jonathan wasn't being very nice to Trip.

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "I expected it from _him_…"

_Je ne détruirai pas la propriété de camp_. He rechecked his tenses and continued. _Eu não destruirei a propriedade do acampamento_. Latin, French, Portuguese… that should be sufficient

"That's right, hotshot. Keep showing off." Jonathan flicked a finger into the top of Malcolm's head. "Maybe by the time you go home, _you'll_ have the ability to get kicked out of school, too."

"Promise?" Malcolm didn't even look up. He never thought that _he'd_ be classed as the trouble kid… but then again, who knew it could be such fun? Besides… getting expelled could only count as a bonus. _Father would hate it…but I'm not sure I like Father that much, anyway_. At least Trip's parents didn't expect him to follow in the family career… though they _did_ seem a bit concerned that he'd be like a cousin and enter the mortuary business. _I could ease their concerns… Trip might like dead bodies in the movies, but he doesn't like the idea of them close up_. But getting expelled… well, it would _definitely_ hurt his chances Navy wise… it would get him away from Jonesy… and wherever else he ended up, he'd at least be showing up without the 'goody-goody' reputation. So far, he couldn't see a downside.

Jonathan laid the back of his hand against Malcolm's forehead, as though checking his temperature. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? Because it _sounds_ like you've had a brain transplant with a donation from Tucker over there. What happened to the nice, polite child who I met at the front gate? The one who barely spoke, except to call me 'sir?'" Jonathan didn't sound angry, he sounded amused.

"He's dead. I killed him." Malcolm kept a straight face, even as Trip snorted above him. _Father_ might not be impressed with this new self… but Malcolm liked it. _It's nice to not just stand there and take it anymore._ He could see now why Americans had been willing to fight an entire _war_ for independence… once you got a taste of the feeling, you never wanted to go back. _Even if it didn't completely work for them_.

"I don't suppose…"

"Il est mort. Je l'ai tué." So French was easier than Latin… he could translate it over again, if Jonathan really wanted him to. This was such a good feeling – talking back. It gave him a rush… made him feel something other than weak.

Trip said something in Spanish, and Jonathan gave them each a light smack in the back of the head. "Get your work done. Otherwise it's going to be _five_ hundred lines each: I will not torment my counsellor with foreign languages."

"Eu não torment meu conselheiro com línguas extrangeiras." Malcolm replied. Maybe there _were_ advantages to being a 'Navy brat' after all. Take Portuguese for example… would he take the time to learn it now, when it _would_ be a foreign language? But since he'd learned it alongside English… it was no different than any of the others he'd picked up along the way. _They were just… there… so I learned them_. It wasn't as though he'd taken a course or anything. The _Latin_ was enforced by school… but there was something interesting in learning the language of a people who'd conquered a large portion of the globe. _Learning their language gives you insight into their way of thinking… and thus their military tactics_.

"Spanish isn't foreign…" Trip muttered. "It's the second official language, you idiot. They made it official about eighty years ago."

"Actually… if you want to get technical, _English_ is a foreign language to America. It was brought over by European emigrants…" Malcolm stopped speaking as another light smack landed on his head.

"Enough. Both of you." Jonathan sounded like he was laughing, though. "I'll see you at dinner." He walked out the door, shaking his head.

"Wow, Mal, that's pretty cool. You know a lot of languages?" Trip leaned down to look at Malcolm, seeming to forget about the deadline.

"I know basics in a few… my family is in the military so we travel extensively. I've been all over the world. What about you?"

"Like I said, Spanish is the second official language of the States… there's a _lot_ of Spanish speakers in Florida… even up North where I live. You just grow up hearing it all the time, and…"

Malcolm nodded. "That's exactly how I learned them. Apparently it leaves you without an accent as well."

"That's cool." Trip returned to his writing. "Do you really think Jonathan will be checking these?"

"It's possible. I doubt he'll check every single line though… or even count them. I think he just wants to keep us occupied and bored for a while. _And_ to give the impression that he's punishing us… I don't know that he's too upset with us at all."

"You coulda fooled me," Trip muttered. "He gave us lines."

"It could have been worse. It could have been… push-ups or something along those lines."

"Don't keep saying _lines_," Trip moaned. "I _hate_ doing stuff like this. I'd _rather_ do push-ups, push-ups are doable."

"I don't know… I think I prefer this." Malcolm had never been good at push-ups… it was another grating point with his father. _You want me to be in perfect physical condition… even now_. Push-ups weren't everything, though… just because he couldn't do more than fifteen at once… well, he'd survived _death_, and that had to mean _something_.

"Yeah, well, you also play chess. You have your share of mental problems."

"Like I said… I can teach you."

Trip suddenly dropped his lines and jumped down from his bunk. He rummaged in Rodriguez's things and pulled out a small chess set. "Come on."

Malcolm sighed and kept writing. "Trip… Jonathan _is_ going to be expecting _some_ lines from us."

Trip ignored him, setting up the board. "Come on… this won't take long."

Malcolm sighed again and set down his own lines… he'd been experimenting with some calligraphy. "Okay." He took the empty position… it looked as though he would be playing white. "Now, do you know any of the basics?"

"Shut up and play." Trip ordered. It _was_ an order… even Stuart Reed Himself would have obeyed those tones.

Fifteen moves later it was over, and Malcolm found himself staring at his captured king in shock. "How did you…"

"Like _I_ said… don't waste _my_ time." Trip packed up the board and put it back. "It's not that complicated a game."

"Oh." Malcolm couldn't think of anything else to say. He'd always considered himself to be pretty good at chess – he could see why Trip looked at it with such disdain though. "That's why you…"

"Hate Chess Club." Trip climbed back up to his bunk and began scribbling again. "They treat me like I'm stupid… like I can't play. Hell, they don't even _ask_… they just ignore me. But if I did something like _that_ to _them_… they'd hate me even more." He grew quiet for a moment. "I guess everybody needs something to feel superior about."

_Most people wouldn't pick up on that_. Most people as multi-talented as Trip took every opportunity to show how good they were… and they never realised the resentment it bred. And most people as multi-talented and _picked on_, as Trip was… well, _they_ usually took every opportunity for revenge. _I know _I_ would._ The idea of humiliating Jonesy at _anything_… _I still wish that he was the one who fell through his bunk_. At the same time… he could see why people thought Trip _couldn't_ play chess… he stuck by the rules, but his style was so unorthodox that anyone used to responding the familiar and classic patterns would be overwhelmed. _He does things that seem stupid… until you realise that he's just set up a trap._ "How many moves ahead do you think, anyway?"

"I don't." Trip's answer seemed impossible. "You start doing that, and you can't adapt to what the other guy is doing. I just take it one move at a time… every move is a new game. Every time I try to set up a long-term strategy… well the other guy just sees right through it, so I don't. It's why I like to play black… when I have to play. It forces _you_ to make the first move… but every move changes the possible patterns and routes to take."

"You'd make a _horrible_ soldier." Malcolm reaffirmed his earlier assessment. "Seat of your pants reaction is the _worst_ way to fight."

"I'd make a horrible _General_," Trip countered. "And I wouldn't want to be a soldier, anyway. I'm allergic to being shot at."

"But don't you decide the strategy in the sports you play?" That _had_ to be typical Trip overstatement; Malcolm doubted Trip had ever had the misfortune to actually be shot at.

"Yeah… 'specially when I'm quarterbacking… but that's one play at a time. You don't plan a touchdown when it's third and ten and you're fifty yards downfield from the end-zone. You go for the ten that's in front of you… get the first down, and _then_ you work from there. If you _happen_ to luck out with a touchdown because your receiver's hot… or he's unguarded… then it's a bonus. Other than that… it's one play at a time. Just like baseball… if the guy hits or misses the pitch… it changes everything. I mean… you can be going for an intentional walk… and if he manages to hit it, and you're not ready for it… you're toast."

"Oh." Malcolm began counting his lines… it had to be _close_ to three hundred fifty, after all… and he really didn't want to do more than that. A thought occurred to him… a slightly horrifying thought, though not as horrifying as it would have been a few weeks ago. _I'm turning into an American_.

# # # #

_I don't believe this_. Jonathan stared at the papers in front of him while his campers stared at him curiously, with the sole exception of the two authors. _And 'authors' is a good word for it_. Whatever this was… it wasn't the lines he'd asked for. Malcolm handed his in… precisely three hundred fifty – if Jonathan was doing the math right – but in about four different languages and three separate handwriting styles. Trip's… well it was crumpled and torn, and not only was the handwriting illegible, but it was impossible to tell where one line ended and the next started. He'd simply run his sentences one after the other… completely devoid of punctuation, or – in the bits Jonathan could decipher – any kind of consistent spelling. _But _Malcolm's_ the one who screwed it up on purpose. I _knew_ Tucker would be a bad influence on him_. He couldn't help but smile at the thought, though. Looking at the change… Malcolm had _needed_ a bad influence just to bring him out of his shell. _I wouldn't want to be the one picking on you in a couple of years_. Give the kid a chance to grow… and he could be very adept at vengeance indeed.

"May I have your attention please…"

_Ah, yes_. And now for the announcement looked forward to by the counsellors almost more than the campers. Jonathan scanned the table when the magical words came out, watching the varied reactions on his charges' faces.

"… Annual Dance…"

A few lit up, a few looked disappointed, but Trip… Trip looked like he'd have a heart attack.

"What's the matter?" Rodriguez poked Trip and sneered. "_You_ were the one who was complaining that there were no girls."

"Hey…" Jonathan could see the violence looming in Trip's eyes. "Knock it off."

"_You_ said you weren't going to punish somebody for stating facts," Rodriguez threw Jonathan's words back at him. "And he did…"

"Shut up." The retort came not from Trip, but from the newly minted Malcolm. "Just because _you_ couldn't attract the attention of a girl if you _paid_ her…"

"Oh, and what would you know about it, _baby_…" Rodriguez turned his attention to Malcolm – maybe thinking it was safer.

"Boys… boys. Be nice." Given the last breakfast, Jonathan knew he'd have to at least _sound_ fair. "Malcolm, stop picking on Chester. Chester, stop picking on Trip. And Trip…"

"Stop behaving myself?" Trip raised an eyebrow, mockingly.

Everyone else started laughing, and after a second, Jonathan joined them. "Okay, you've made your point. Thank you for _not_ being a pain in my side."

"Given that I've nearly developed a case of carpal tunnel syndrome…" Trip muttered.

"Carpal tunnel syndrome?" Kiprusoff leaned over and looked at Trip quizzically. "From what?"

Trip jerked his head towards Jonathan. "Ask him."

Jonathan held up the papers. "Lines."

"You give _lines_?" Kiprusoff's expression changed to one of amazement. "_Nobody_ gives lines… they're ineffective."

"That's what I tried to tell him," Trip confirmed. "The man won't listen to basic psychological research. _And_ he's willing to risk a child's health… hell, you'd think he'd never _heard_ of the term 'repetitive motion injury.'"

"I hate to break this to you, Doctor, but there's very little statistical data to back up the allegation that a mere three hundred fifty handwritten lines is sufficient to cause any sort of repetitive motion injury, let alone carpal tunnel syndrome. So stop being so dramatic… it's not like I could read them anyway." As soon as the words left his mouth, Jonathan regretted it.

"And he wonders why he…" Rodriguez didn't even get a chance to finish before a glass of milk hit him full in the face.

"Malcolm! I said, _that's enough_." Jonathan lifted the now empty glass out of Malcolm's hand and set it out of reach. _He not only killed that kid… he buried him twenty-feet deep._ "Just for that… you're not going tonight."

"Then I'm not going either." All heads turned to look at Trip who shrugged. "Hey. He's my friend. And seeing as that was in defence of my good character…"

_You shit_. Jonathan closed his eyes and counted to ten. _I've been looking forward to this. _Malcolm_ I could leave on his own… but the two of you together I'm not going to trust. But if Amy Bryson's there again this year… I can't _not_ show up._ Not with all of these woods around, and all the campers locked up in the events hall, too distracted to notice the temporary disappearance of a couple of counsellors. If he didn't know better he'd _swear_ Trip planned this… as it was he just wanted to swear. _Trip_ thought it was bad that there were no girls here? _Most of us… forget baseball, kiddies. This is _our_ highlight of the summer. Much as I love working with you guys… I deserve to get _something _out of it._ A nasty thought occurred to him, an evil thought so perfect that it begged for execution. "Actually… you _are_ going."

"You can't make me."

_And here we are… back at the beginning_. "Wanna bet?"

"You can't make me go to a dance. That violates my fundamental rights…"

"Like I said, we're in Canada, hotshot." He leaned across the table to speak right into Trip's ear. "And since Jay says he hasn't seen the slightest sign of you around the Arts and Crafts cabin… I'm forced to assume that you're not doing your project." Though, given Tucker, it was probably what he'd stolen the wood for. _And why I wonder what you're really building_. Somehow a trebuchet just didn't seem… _big_ enough… especially if it was a scale model. _I'd expect you to go for something a little more… combustible._ "As a result… hmmmn… Dancing, or lines?"

"I think…"

"You should go." Malcolm looked directly at Trip… but the message passed between them was too coded for Jonathan to interpret. He thought he heard a slight emphasis on the word 'go,' but he couldn't be sure. What ever it was, Trip seemed to understand, because he settled back and nodded.

"Okay, I'll go."

Now that he had what he wanted, Jonathan wasn't so sure he wanted it anymore. _What the hell are you two up to?_

# # # #

_Well, this is a real winner_. Trip idled near the exit, watching as campers milled awkwardly together under the watchful – and not so watchful – eyes of their counsellors. In fact… Jonathan seemed to have forgotten everyone's presence, save for the girl whose hip he had his hand on. _Yeah, pal… real attentive to your responsibilities here._ Maybe if Melissa were here this dance might be worth something… _but she's the only girl for me._ Oh well, it wasn't like this was going to take long. Given that Kenny boy had already disappeared, and Dino looked like he was dying for a smoke… _Off you go, and then off I go._ After all, he never said he'd _stay_.

"Having fun?"

Trip nodded a response to Dino's question and sipped his drink. "Just getting a feel for things."

"Good." Dino slipped out the door, and Trip listened to his footsteps crunching on gravel. He counted off a few more seconds then followed, ducking off into the woods, then taking as direct a route as he dared to the cabin.

"Hey, Mal. Let's go." No answer came and he opened the door to look in. The cabin was empty, save for a note on Trip's bunk. Trip read the note and smiled. "Atta boy, Mal. A step ahead of me, already." Kid learned quick – he'd adjusted to the change in timing like a pro. He stuffed the note into his pocket and headed off to their clearing.

# # # #

_It's not as though I was interested in a dance anyway._ Malcolm slunk through the woods, heading out for the building site. They'd lost half the afternoon with those lines, so he reasoned that the best thing to do would be to put a couple of hours in now, then head back to the cabin before the dance broke up. _It's not like Jonathan will ever know_.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" A familiar and unwelcome voice drifted from the darkness. _Jonesy_.

He turned to run – to get out of this mess of undergrowth and back to the relative safety of the main camp. Hong and Dutretre materialised in his path, and grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back.

"This time isn't going to be so easy, Reedy. Especially since your buddy seems more interested in girls at the moment… I don't think he's going to rescue you." Jonesy stepped in front of him and raised one of his big, heavy fists. "Now you're going to apologise for those nasty things you said about me…"

"Screw you." He spat into Jonesy's face, the most defiant move he could manage. It would, he realised, garner him a worse beating… _but at least this time I'm not just taking it._

The blow connected hard with his stomach and would have doubled him over were it not for the other two boys holding him upright. He cried out from the pain – he couldn't help it.

As Jonesy drew back for his next punch a howl of rage sounded behind him. A fast moving object smashed into into Jonesy's back, hurtling him to the ground. Trip pounded on the bigger boy, his words incoherent with rage.

Jonesy shoved Trip away and scrambled to his feet. "Hold on to him… we'll finish that up in a second."

"Like fucking hell you will," Trip growled. "The only thing you're finishing is your days of being able to walk." He stood up himself, blood dripping from a scrape on his forehead. But his eyes burned with manic fire. The two circled one another, looking for an opening, then Trip lunged again. Jonesy stepped aside and shoved, and Trip slammed hard into a tree.

"Give it up. Reedy isn't worth the time." Jonesy sneered and turned back to Malcolm.

"Fuck you, asshole." Trip tackled him a second time, knocking Jonesy's head against the ground. "You're a dead man, you fucking hear me?"

Jonesy grabbed a fallen branch and swung it around, and Malcolm winced at the crack as the wood connected with Trip's ribs. It loosened Trip's grasp, and Jonesy regained his footing, spinning and planting his foot where the branch had just landed. "This is why _I_'_m_ in charge, you useless piece of shit." He punctuated his words with a few more kicks, including two to the head.

Trip rolled away and climbed to his feet, his newly split lip presenting another source of blood. He spat something from his mouth – as far as Malcolm could tell, it was a tooth.

_"Stop it!"_ Malcolm turned his head away, unable to do more. Jonesy was going to kill Trip – he knew it. Because Trip wouldn't stay down, wouldn't let up. He was smaller than Jonesy, weaker than Jonesy… but he wouldn't quit. Jonesy might be cruel, but Trip was mad… crazy mad. One of his eyes seemed to shine red in the moonlight – Malcolm knew it had to be blood, but it gave Trip the look of something otherworldly: a demon straight out of hell. Jonesy was going to kill Trip… because if he didn't, Trip would surely kill him.

# # # #

"Shh." Jonathan held Amy's hand, pulling her along the path. If she didn't stop giggling… "It's not that far… it's perfect. Soft grass… out of the way…"

"Mmmn. And on a warm night like this…" She rushed suddenly forward and pressed herself against him. "There is no _telling_ what we could get up to."

"Well…" He leaned in to kiss her when they heard the scream – panicked voice that banished any thoughts but terror from his mind, coming from directly in front of them. _"Stop it!"_

_Oh, God_. Jonathan dropped Amy's hand and took off towards the sound of Malcolm's voice. Whatever it was…

"Jon?" Amy called from behind him, puzzled. "What is it?"

He didn't waste time with an answer, knowing that he _had_ no time to waste. The only way Malcolm would be screaming like that… _is if he's not the one getting hurt_. That only left one option… one, horrible alternative. _Oh, God, please, no._ He drew close enough to catch a glimpse – Jones raising a stick and swinging it at a shorter, blond figure. He ran faster, ignoring the undergrowth that reached out and tried to grab his feet, and the greenery whipping at his arms. "That's enough!" He could see Malcolm now, as Dutretre and Hong released him. But Trip… Trip needed more than just a counsellor right now. Blood dripped down his face from several gashes – more oozed from wounds on his torso. But he refused to stay down, refused to back away. Jonathan stepped between them and snatched the stick out of Jones' hand, shattering it against a tree trunk. "Both of you, just quit it now." He had a fair idea what had happened… but Trip had murder in his eyes.

"Out of my way, Jon." He could hear Trip's breathing, laboured and painful, bubbling through a smashed nose or a mangled mouth. But his voice carried no pain – just cold, deadly anger. His words were slurred, though, and he spat when he finished speaking.

_I think that's the first time you've used my name_. But he couldn't let this play itself out, or one of these boys would end up dead. "I don't think I take orders from you."

"I wasn't joking, Jon."

"Neither was I." He realised he was banking on Trip's newfound respect, and prayed it was enough to rein in the savage. _Otherwise, this is not a good place to be standing._ "Stand down. We'll deal with this." He could hear an audience gathering… Amy must have gone back for reinforcements.

"Nobody…"

"Nobody's getting away with anything, Trip." Unfortunately, even with Trip's wounds, it would be hard to prove that this fight was anything but mutual. He doubted they'd buy the defence argument either… after all, Trip could have run for help.

_While the others beat the crap out of Malcolm._ No… Trip could never have run for help. He'd never sacrifice a friend, not if he could take the beating for them. Jonathan got a better look at the boy now, and wished he hadn't. One eye had swollen closed, and his mouth looked like he'd had a close encounter with a cheese grater. _No wonder you can barely talk_. From Trip's breathing and stance, a couple of ribs were cracked, if not outright broken. Two fingers on his left hand stuck out at odd angles, and he was covered in blood. Yet he clearly wanted to continue, wanted to take Jones apart. _But I can't let you do that_. "I know you were only defending someone else… but that's over now. It's over now." He waited until Jones, Dutretre and Hong were escorted from sight before stepping towards Trip. He couldn't do anything while they were there, or he'd undermine what Trip had accomplished. And he _had_ accomplished something… Jonathan saw it in the eyes of the others. They'd been _scared_… because they'd tapped into something that they couldn't control, that actually formed a threat. _Bullies like control… but intimidation is like fire… and you never know if the keg you're playing with is full of sand or TNT._

As the boys left, so did the last of Trip's reserves. He sagged towards the ground, and Jonathan caught him, easing him the rest of the way, cradling him gently. "Hang in there, kiddo. You hang in there, okay?"

Malcolm crouched beside them, his eyes brimming with tears. "Is he…"

"I don't know," Jonathan answered, honestly. He swallowed hard to keep from crying himself. _You crazy, crazy kid_. After all, how many kids would take this kind of a beating for somebody else? Even if that somebody was a friend? "Don't let anyone tell you you're not a hero, kid," he whispered. If the Academy wouldn't let in somebody like this… _well, then I'm quitting, right then and there. Because _this_ is the best and the brightest…_this_ is what humanity ought to stand for_. Not the violence, but the heart. The stubborn refusal to lie down, despite overwhelming odds; the willingness to give yourself up for someone else; the defence of the weaker from the stronger. He kept Trip's face tilted downwards so the blood wouldn't run back into his airway, and prayed that it all came from nose and mouth… that it didn't originate in the lungs.

"I want to go with you to the hospital." The tears escaped and began rolling down Malcolm's face.

This time, Jonathan didn't even hesitate. "You bet. He'll be glad to see you there."

"I told him that Jonesy wasn't a chicken, that he'd fight… but Trip took him on anyway. He wouldn't quit… Jonesy kept hitting him, but he wouldn't quit… and he did it to help me…"

"I know." Because Trip wouldn't have lifted a finger to get himself out of danger… it had always been — Jonathan realised — for somebody else. _Well, someone's helping you this time…I'm pulling every string I can think of now…there is no way they're getting away with this one._ Finally, he heard the sirens, but they brought no comfort, only served to remind how desperate things were. _You're right, kiddo… and the sun don't shine in the middle of the night._


	15. Understanding

Disclaimer: As usual -- I don't own the characters, or the show. I make no money from this.

Author's note: Thank you, everyone for all the attention and support on this -- but yes, I am afraid that all good things must come to an end. Summer cannot last for ever, we must enter Autumn and face what it has to bring. In response to a question from two chapters back (sorry, forgot to answer it last chapter), no, tracythecubedone, I don't have a degree in child psych, it's actually in Communications. Which may be why I keep forgetting to communicate. Thank you again, all... it's been fun.

A/N2: Special thanks to gaianarchy and silvershadowfire who took the time to clean up the mess I made of this. I owe you guys a lot.

Chapter 15: Understanding

_This just isn't fair._ Malcolm idled in the hospital lobby, wondering how long it would be before he heard anything. The hospital staff hadn't let him go in with Trip; it had been a fight just to be able to travel in the ambulance. Still, they could at least tell him if Trip was going to be okay or not. _He didn't look okay_. In fact, had he not been making noises as he breathed, Malcolm would have assumed that his friend was already dead. Jonathan alternated his time between checking on Malcolm and hovering just inside the emergency ward. The doctors had wanted to check _him_ out too – there was that much blood.

And now… he listened as Jonathan and Dino spoke in low tones. He couldn't hear it all, but he heard enough – the camp was going to send Trip home… there might even be recommendations to the police.

_I can't let that happen_. After everything Trip just sacrificed, Malcolm knew that he couldn't just sit there and do nothing. _But what?_ He'd have to take a page from Trip's book, and adapt. Well, if he'd learned one thing this summer, it was how to stop thinking and just _do_ things.

_I can't do anything from here_. A ten-year-old simply didn't have bargaining power – he'd have to arrange to get some. He waited until Jonathan disappeared through the doors again, then simply walked out of the lobby and down the street. He still didn't quite have a plan... _but_ _I'll just take it one play at a time._

# # # #

_Not the smartest move of my life._ Still, he'd been close… another couple of minutes and he could've dropped the guy. _He's lucky you stepped in, Jon_.

Not to say that this didn't hurt… it hurt bad – worse than he'd ever hurt before. The doctors seemed excited about something though – they kept checking him over, asking him questions and poking him. Everything looked kinda weird, too… hazy and a little bit red.

_And they had to go an' give me the Freddy Krueger look, too. _It was kinda cool, if he thought about it – and didn't think about how much his fingers hurt beneath those metal bands. But if he didn't think about the pain in his fingers, it was the pain in his chest and side every time he tried to inhale … not to mention the pain in his face and the fact that he couldn't breathe through his nose. _But he'll think twice before messing with another kid… even someone as dumb as him can't be that stupid_. Jonathan kept popping in and out of the ward like some sort of schizophrenic particle that couldn't decide which reality to inhabit – Trip could see him through a gap in the curtains, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking like he was gonna fly to pieces.

_Don't worry about me; worry about Malcolm_. After all, it looked like Jonesy had gotten a couple of good shots in, and Malcolm wasn't a fighter. _I'm used to taking a beating._ Linebackers were always looking to kill you… best to think of this as training for the fall football season. 'Course linebackers didn't tend to break your bones... at least not intentionally.

A doctor came in, started shining a light in his eyes. "How are we feeling?"

"I don't know about you, but I feel like crap. You mind getting that thing out of here before ya blind me?" God, he hated that… the phoney 'how are we feeling' bullshit. He wouldn't _be_ here if he felt okay. Didn't this guy have eyes? Couldn't he read a diagnostic? Funny, though, he could barely understand himself talk.

"Well, we should have you back on your feet soon. You might want to remember this, though, next time you decide to start a fight."

Lucky for this guy, Jonathan picked that moment to step in. "He didn't start it. He was defending another boy. He did the right thing."

_You're okay with this?_ Hadn't Jonathan been freaking out over any contact whatsoever between him and the others? Wasn't _Jonathan_ the one who'd been going on about how Trip could be charged criminally if he pulled anything?

"I still don't see how…" clearly this doctor was one of those pacifist jerks who believed that every problem could be solved with a few kind words.

"He put himself on the line for somebody else. I've worked with a lot of kids… and let me tell you, most wouldn't go this far to help somebody smaller and weaker. Most either side with the bully – or the group – or just stay out of it."

_What kind of alien being are you, and why were you desperate enough to kidnap my counsellor?_ Maybe someone'd hit Jonathan on the head… that was the only explanation. Or maybe he was possessed… like Linda Blair or something. Because this could _not_ be the same guy who'd handed out lines only hours ago.

The doctor didn't look convinced, but he seemed smart enough not to say anything more. Suddenly Trip found himself believing the rumours about Jonathan taking on Kendricks. What he couldn't understand was _why?_ _You never answered that one, and after all the hell I've put you through…_ It couldn't just be a 'feeling sorry' thing… could it? After all, every time Jonathan showed concern, it was after something bad happened… like the migraine, or when Malcolm almost drowned. And now…

The doctor examined a couple more read-outs, then left, but not before glaring at Jonathan. "He needs rest."

"He needs a hell of a lot more than that." Jonathan muttered. He turned to Trip, "They haven't really given you anything for the pain, because they need authorisation from your parents to do so… and they haven't been able to get hold of your parents yet."

"I'm fine." After all, it was just a couple of broken bones, right? "Cuts heal."

"Cuts, yeah," Jonathan countered, "but from what I could gather you've got a couple of broken ribs, your fingers are smashed, you've lost a tooth – not to mention a lot of blood – and they're trying to figure out if you've got a concussion, if not brain damage. I mean, it's a good thing they don't have a mirror in here, or you'd scare yourself silly. But don't worry. This time those guys are going to get what's coming to them."

"I was working on that." Jeeze, some people could be so dense.

"You were getting _killed_. Maybe you should look in a mirror; you might scare some _sense_ into yourself." Jonathan smiled, taking some of the sting out of the words. "But you did good. I mean that."

"Next time, stay out of the way." He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to figure out why they wouldn't work right. A series of dents and bumps answered that question… apparently, they'd been shredded against his teeth.

"With any luck, there won't _be_ a next time, hotshot." Jonathan stepped aside as a nurse entered, holding something wrapped in a cloth.

"Hold that against your lips," the nurse instructed, handing it to Trip, "it will take down some of the swelling."

He did as instructed – the ice stung at first, then numbed the nerves. He sucked on it a bit, letting the cool water soothe his throat. "I guess I'm in for it now, huh?"

"We'll see." Jonathan patted him on the shoulder. "Try not to talk for a bit… it's probably not so good for you."

"Whatever." Like Jonathan could do anything, anyway. _You _do_ just feel sorry for me, don't you? You think I lost, so you pity me. Well, I didn't lose… you just kept me from winning._ He wondered what Mr. Future Starfleet would say to that?

# # # #

_What does it take to compliment you?_ Jonathan could see the mistrust still lurking in Trip's eyes; clearly the kid needed to believe that there was an ulterior motive to everything. _One step forward and five steps back_. "I meant what I said, kiddo. What you did took guts. And I know I told you that violence wasn't a solution – or something along those lines at least – but I was talking about vigilantism. You weren't the aggressor here, and you weren't out for revenge. Most kids – most people in general – wouldn't step in to help once things reached that level. They'd be too afraid for themselves – and for good reason. I mean, look at yourself, Trip… you're so badly beat up that you're barely recognisable. He could have easily killed you."

"I wasn't the one gonna die." Trip mumbled through the ice.

"You also weren't the one with a weapon. That's intent... at the very minimum, to do grievous bodily harm. There's a reason they call it 'Assault with a Deadly Weapon.'" A slight variance in any one of those blows… Jonathan shuddered. Bad enough to have to justify this, but it could have been so much worse.

He opened his mouth to say more, but Dino burst into the emergency ward in a panic. "Jon… your other kid…"

"Malcolm." Why could no one seem to remember his name?

"He's gone. I checked the vending machine, I checked the caf, I looked all over… then there was this message for you, phoned into the desk. He's taken himself hostage… he won't come back until we can guarantee this guy's not going to be punished for his actions."

"I wasn't planning…" Jonathan closed his eyes, putting it together. "He must have overheard us, thought we were talking about Trip. Did you talk to him?"

Dino shook his head. "No. The call came in from a public phone… I called it back, but he didn't pick up. I doubt he's there any more. Jesus, Jon, I thought that was the smart one."

"They both are," Jonathan said softly. A pair of over-intelligent mis-fits – no wonder they became such good friends. Even this stunt – while impulsive, overblown, and entirely wrong-headed – had a certain level of genius to it. Kidnapping himself… it was one of the most politically astute moves Jonathan had seen from a kid _ever_. _He didn't put anyone else in danger… It's hard to say if _he_ is in any danger himself, but the _potential_… we can't afford not to listen_.

"We gotta go find him." Trip began to climb down from the bed, seemingly unconcerned for himself.

"Whoa. Not so fast, hotshot." Jonathan reached out to stop him. "You're in no shape to go anywhere, and the doctors would have my hide if I even tried to take you."

"But he's out there. Alone. He's not from around here, and he's just a kid."

"We'll find him, he'll be okay." He tried to ease Trip back onto the bed.

"No he won't. You were the one who told _me_ that it was dangerous out there… and then he was with somebody. Now he's on his own. Anything could happen to him… what if he's gone off to hide in the woods? He…he could be… you guys kept warning us about wild animals… he's just little…"

"I'm sure he's okay." Actually, Jonathan wasn't so sure. This was so out of character for Malcolm – this couldn't have been planned out… and there were so many ways it could turn into a disaster.

Trip shook his head, despite the fact that it must have hurt like hell. God, the kid looked a mess – _both_ eyes were blackened and the one was still swollen shut. He had stitches all over his face and splints decorated his fingers. Yet he hadn't cried or complained once, just sucked it all up and worried about his friend. "We gotta…"

"Kiddo…"

Trip stared up at him through tear filled eyes that drew out a sympathy overriding any reasonable arguments Jon might have had, and said probably the hardest word in his vocabulary. "Please."

………………………………………………………………………………………………

They scoured the town, but found no sign of Malcolm. With each failure, Trip grew more and more agitated. "I told you: he's probably run off into the woods… what if he gets hurt…"

Jonathan said nothing, just kept scanning the sidewalks as he drove. _After all, what _can_ I say? If anyone can talk about being hurt…_ Yet, here Trip was, beat to hell, and his only concern was the well-being of somebody else. Then again, apparently Malcolm's motives came from that same concern. _I wish I had friends half that loyal_.

Suddenly, Trip stiffened. "Oh, no… he wouldn't."

"What?" Jonathan found himself flooded with panic. What could possibly be bad enough to scare Trip more than he already was?

"There's the leftovers of this really ancient air-tram setup… It's kind of deep in the canyon."

"Oh, God." Jonathan knew the site… it _was_ dangerous, especially at the top end. And it was the perfect place for someone to take himself hostage: it required a bit of a hike to get to, and carried enough physical threat to provide leverage.

"It's a really defensible position, he said, because it's hard to get to, and you could see anybody coming in. But if there's wild animals out there…"

_I'm more worried about a fall_. Those rocks could get slippery, and they weren't always stable. _But they're certainly hard enough to land on_. Jon refused to allow the images of a small broken body to enter his mind.

"I gotta go up there. If you go, he won't come out. 'Cause he's doing this to help me, and he prob'ly doesn't think that you're gonna do that, or that you can do that. But he'll listen to me."

"Trip, you're badly beat up. I shouldn't have brought you out here to start with, I'll be lucky if I don't get sued."

"I won't let Mom and Dad do that. I'll tell them it was all my idea… they'll believe it from me…"

"It's not them I'm worried about," Jonathan said, darkly, turning onto the highway. "It's the camp… I could be charged with endangering a minor. I could also be charged with kidnapping."

"I made you do it," Trip didn't seem to appreciate the implications. "I'll say I threatened to do something stupid if you didn't take me… everybody knows I do lots of stupid things. I kidnapped you… if you really think about it."

_Like that could be used as an excuse_. The authorities were more likely to argue that a person in Trip's condition was in no shape to threaten anybody, let _alone_ someone nearly twice his size. _Then again, who'd guess that a ten-year-old would think of abducting himself?_ A twelve-year-old, maybe – if it was the twelve-year-old sitting beside him. _This is way more Trip's style, than Malcolm's._

He drove as carefully as he could when he turned off the paved stretch, not wanting to jar Trip any more than necessary. He didn't even get stopped at the end of the road before Trip had the door open and scrambled out.

"Malcolm!" Trip's voice echoed off the rocks. "Malcolm, I need to talk to you."

"Trip?" They had to strain to hear him. "What are you doing out of hospital?"

"Looking for you," Trip hollered back. "Are you _insane_?"

"I'm beginning to think so." It sounded strange to hear a shouted confession. "But I'm not letting you get sent home."

"Okay… where are you?"

"Trip!" Jonathan grabbed Trip's arm. "You can't go in there… you're lucky you're still standing."

"Jon, do you want to get Malcolm back here, or not? All this yelling is giving me a headache. Now, I'll do a better job of lying to him if you're not there."

"I don't _plan_ to send you home."

Trip looked at him with near contempt. "Jon… I should be in the hospital. There's no way in _hell_ anybody's going to let me stay at camp. I'll be transferred home, regardless. So… I'm going to have to lie. Let me go."

"And what happens if something happens to you, hotshot? Who's going to help you?"

"I _can't_ pull it off with you there, Jon. You can't bluff worth shit."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "Lucky for you, you've never played poker with me, or you'd be in debt for the rest of your miserable little life." If he took pride in anything, it was his ability to run a bluff.

"Well, I would, but we've got a life to save. Maybe later." Trip twisted away, and headed off into the woods. Jonathan followed after him.

"Go away, Jon." Trip didn't even look back.

"Go to hell, hotshot." If the kid wanted to hold him hostage, he'd damn well make sure he was a hostage.

They kept bickering, even as Jonathan had to catch Trip from falling a couple of times when the boy stumbled.

"Malcolm!" Jonathan yelled, suddenly, "Get out here before this idiot kills himself! You're the only one who can talk sense into him!" He waited, listening, then heard the sound of someone coming through the words towards them. _Thank God._

"Trip, you really should be in hospital." Malcolm was covered in mud and slime and bits of forest. He half slid down the hill, using bushes to slow his descent. "This isn't a good place for someone in your condition."

"I tried to tell him that." Jonathan couldn't help but be sarcastic. "But he seemed to think that you needed saving."

"But you're not going to send him back? He can stay? You won't involve the police?" Malcolm practically quivered, but whether from anxiety or cold, Jonathan couldn't tell.

"_I_'_m_ not going to send him back… but I'm not sure if he'll have to go home now, just because he's so beat up. They'll want to keep an eye on him, for his own health. And it wasn't Trip I was going to turn over to the police, it was the other three."

"Oh." Malcolm seemed to shrink. "I thought that you were going to have Trip charged with fighting them… because of all the bad things he's done before. But he didn't do those things for bad reasons. And fighting with Jonesy was about helping me…"

"I know," Jonathan interrupted before Malcolm became even more agitated. "I know why he did it, and it was a good thing that he did. Risky... maybe foolish... but _good_. _This_ however, is the most ill-considered stunt I've ever heard of."

"Thank you." At least Malcolm had the decency to blush. "I tried… I needed to get your attention, and I couldn't think of any other way to do it."

"Yeah, jerking his chain does work, doesn't it?" Trip had gone grey, and his breathing became more laboured.

"Let's get you back, hotshot." Jonathan began herding them back to the car. "I just hope they don't skin me too badly for bringing you out here in the first place."

"Why did you?" Malcolm moved to Trip's side and began supporting him. "He shouldn't have been taken from the hospital… I didn't expect you to do that."

"He said 'please.'" Jonathan found himself disappointed when Malcolm didn't seem surprised.

"He does that. He just doesn't overuse it."

_I didn't know you could_. Jonathan buckled Trip into the seat, then unlocked the back door for Malcolm. "I'll try to go easy on you, pal. We're lucky this thing has fairly good shocks. And remember… if anyone asks, you kidnapped me."

Trip smiled wanly. "Okay. If I'm good, can I have a cookie?"

"If you pull off good, you can have a whole damn cake." Jonathan didn't like the way Trip sounded either. It was as though whatever he'd been running on had run dry and left him stranded in delirium. He concentrated on his driving, trying to spot the bumps and holes before he hit them.

"Sorry I wrecked your date." Trip's head rolled back and forth, limply as he mumbled. "I don't think she's the David Fincher type, though. You'd probably have to watch girl movies with her… nothing decent. When I get a girl, she'll like good movies."

"Okay." Better to pretend that he understood, even if it made no sense.

"_Fight Club_." Maybe Trip was more coherent than he seemed. "One of the best movies ever made… 'cept for maybe _Donnie Darko_ or _Memento_ or maybe _Casablanca_. Yeah, C_asablanca__'s_ the best. Warner Brothers, 1942: Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergmann, Peter Lorre… that's a good movie."

"Okay." He decided not to disillusion Trip about his and Amy's relationship. _If he wants to think we're dating, that's fine… I don't think he needs to be indoctrinated into the finer points of college life just yet._

"'Course, I don't know why you'd wreck a good movie by taking a girl to it. You'd be so distracted, you'd miss the movie. Prob'ly better to go your route an' make it a short walk in the woods."

_Right_. This _was_ Trip he was dealing with. Jonathan decided not to pursue the subject; he was in enough trouble already. He glanced in the mirror, and saw Malcolm leaning against the window with his eyes closed, exhaustion from his adventure taking its toll.

"Jon… what do girls like?" Trip asked, "'Cause there's this girl… but I can't really get her to notice me… well, she notices me, but I don't know if she really likes me… and I want her to really like me… but I'm scared I'll screw it up."

"You want to know a secret?" So, it seemed like he'd finally made it all the way to Big Brother after all. "We all are. There isn't a guy out there who isn't scared to _death_ that some girl is going to reject him – _especially_ if he's got serious feelings for her. You've just got to guess your way through it, and hope for the best. Because just when you think you've got it figured out, everything changes."

"Oh." Trip drew silent for a moment. "So it's normal?"

Jonathan laughed. It seemed like only yesterday that he'd been on Trip's side of the conversation. "Perfectly normal, kiddo. When it comes to women, we're all in the same boat, and I'm afraid it's the Titanic."

"Mmnn." Trip didn't say anything else – he probably didn't have the energy to. Frankly it was amazing he'd gotten this far.

_Nice to know you're human, though, kid._

# # # #

_Ow._ Trip opened his eyes to find himself staring at a dimly lit hospital room, dressed only in a flimsy gown. The doctors must not have been too pleased with his decision to look for Malcolm. _Well, I had to._ He looked over towards the door, and saw Jonathan talking to someone familiar… though he couldn't place…

_Holy shit!_ What was Jonathan doing talking to Henry… Trip's heart and stomach both sank as the implications sunk in. _Oh no…_ Henry… Jonathan… Archer… _I am _so_ dead._ He had to get out of here, had to hide – except the only way out was through them.

_The top guy in warp field physics, and I just spent the summer torturing his son._ Well, there went any chance of an engineering career.

"Hey, hotshot, you awake?" Jonathan pushed the door open a little further than it was and stuck his head in. "There's someone here I want you to meet."

_Uh, uh_. Trip ducked his head under the blankets. This was mortifying. He'd _dreamt_ of having the chance to meet Henry Archer… but not as some horrible little brat who… _Maybe I'm just having a nightmare, and if I try hard enough I can wake up and it'll all go away._

Jonathan chuckled. "You'll have to forgive him, Dad… he can be a little shy."

Trip scrunched his eyes shut and willed it all to disappear. That was _not_ the one and only Henry Archer standing there, Jonathan _wasn't_ calling him 'Dad,' none of this was happening. _No, no, no, no, no._

"What's the matter, hotshot?" He could hear the laughter in Jonathan's voice. "I thought you'd want to meet…"

Trip's eyes flew open and he popped his head out from the covers. "Honestly, sir, I had no idea… I mean, I didn't know that Jon was your son… and I…"

Henry started to laugh. "Personally, kid, I think he needed to be knocked down a notch or two. Now, my son tells me you're a pretty good engineer…"

"Not that good." Trip could feel himself turning red. "I mean I'd like to be, some day, but there's a lot I've got to learn…" He tried to ignore Jonathan's look of mock surprise. _Asshole_.

"Well, that's the first step." Henry smiled. "There's a lot to learn for all of us."

"W-D 40." Trip noted the look of surprise on both Jonathan and Henry's faces. "How it got its name… it's a _Water_ _Displacer_, and it took them forty tries to get it right."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Well… something I didn't know. Sounds like you're pretty serious about finding things out."

Trip nodded. "Yes, sir. My Dad says I'm the master of useless things. He says I know more stuff that'll never come in handy than anyone he's ever met."

"You never know what you might need… sometimes the best inspirations come from the most unlikely of places. Maybe I might see you one day around the workshop. Who knows? You might even be there when we reach Warp Two, if you study hard, and get there quick."

Trip grinned. "I'd like that, sir. That'd be something to see."

Henry frowned, suddenly. "Well, I hate to cut this short, but I really have to go. It was very good to meet you, Trip."

"Yes, sir." He found himself a little surprised at the look of resignation on Jonathan's face. Didn't he get to see his father much? _That would be pretty sad_.

"I'm sorry about that," Jonathan confirmed Trip's suspicions after he'd seen his father out. "He spends most of his time in that facility… it's his entire life."

"My dad can get pretty caught up in his work sometimes." Trip tried to think of something that might make Jonathan feel better. "He even yells at me when I interrupt him, sometimes… but I'll bet your dad really does care, just like mine does. I think that dads don't always realise things – that's all."

Jonathan sighed, but nodded. "I know. It's just hard sometimes."

"It could be worse," Malcolm made his way into the room, and stood next to the bed. "You could have _my_ father."

Trip pretended to consider it for a moment. "Naw… I'd probably give him a heart attack… either that, or he'd be going to jail for killing me."

Both Jonathan and Malcolm started to laugh. Trip watched them, then smiled just slightly. As much as he hated to admit it, his parents were right: he _had_ gained something this summer – something he'd never expected. _Friends_.


End file.
